Mirage
by Escriba
Summary: Welcome to another universe. Welcome to the Earth/Vulcan war.
1. The Best of Times

**Disclaimer:** CBS/Paramount owns Star Trek Enterprise, I don't, not a bit. Sad but true.

**Author notes:** Tell me if this story has _any_ sense at all. Really, I'm not sure it has.

There is a _subtle_ (and lame) homage to Tolkien. Sorry.

Thanks to **Alelou** for beta-reading this.

* * *

There was a touch of exhilaration in the atmosphere. Happiness was a rare commodity those days, but sometimes Humans needed to embrace their natural faith and optimism and act like... Humans.

"Captain Mayweather?"

Travis turned to look at Captain Archer. The older man was offering a glass to him. Travis took it with a slight feeling of remorse. "Champagne..." he murmured. "Isn't it a waste to drink something so scarce?"

"But we are celebrating an exceptional event. It's not everyday we can say we have swept away a Vulcan Battle Fleet. Isn't that true, boys?"

Those present raised their glasses and shouted: "Damn right, sir!"

Travis frowned. Although he was younger, as a Boomer he had taken part in more battles than Archer, a career soldier. He was less enthusiastic than most people, perhaps because he knew how futile a victory could be. He looked at Shran, hoping to see a kindred spirit.

The Andorian Commander, far from being gloomy, was laughing with Major Reed,

Travis sighed. Maybe it was just him...

"What's up, Captain Mayweather?" Archer asked.

"Nothing... I was thinking about... About war, I guess."

"It's been long, hasn't it?"

'Long' was an understatement. Travis had been born and had grown up in war time. Vulcans and Humans had been killing each other for around 75 years now, ever since "The Longest Day," when a secret group that had ties to the Army and the Government had killed the Vulcan Ambassador and his entourage, and Earth's government had denied their extradition to Vulcan. But you could say that it began before that. Humans and Vulcans had never gotten along well, not since that group of space refugees had first warned them about the "pointy ears" before the official First Contact.

"After so many battles, I feel a little old, that's all," Travis explained.

"Old?" Shran exclaimed as he approached the two captains. "My boy, you're young compared to me. _I_ should feel like an elderly man. We Andorians were at war with Vulcans long before you."

Yes, that was true. That was, also, the main reason why the Andorians had offered to help the Humans when they were about to be crushed by the Vulcan Fleet. "I don't know... We've celebrated so many small victories, just to see them shattered after the subsequent Vulcan victory," Travis said.

"Ah, but not this time, my boy," Shran replied.

Mayweather was about to remind him to call him "Captain" or "Sir" - because he had _earned_ it - but reconsidered.

"Vulcans will need time to recover from this loss," the Andorian went on. "We have won the control over the Passage of Karadh'ss _and_ we have destroyed half of their elite fleet."

"Thanks to our Tactical Officer," Archer said and slipped an arm around Shran's shoulders.

"You collaborated a little too," Shran joked. "And, of course, Major Reed here and his MACOs, who assaulted those Vulcan ships with astounding skill."

Malcolm smirked and the scar on his right cheek turned into a question mark. "We were just carrying out our mission." He smiled openly. "But it's always a pleasure to kick some green asses."

The men laughed. Travis faked his.

"How's Captain Hayes?" Archer asked.

"Oh, you know him, when he sleeps more than two hours he becomes cranky."

"But he is all right."

"Yes." Malcolm stretched his neck to take a look at the other side of the room. "Doctor Phlox! Yes, over here! Come over for a moment, please."

The Denobulan made his way over, moving with difficulty through the crowd. "Yes, Major Reed?"

"Please, update the Captain on Hayes' condition."

"He is stable. Worse than he claims to be, but out of danger," he complied in a monotone voice.

"That's good news, why aren't you more cheery?" Archer asked.

"Death doesn't make me happy, even if we're talking about Vulcan corpses." And he went away.

"Spoilsport," mumbled Shran.

"It's understandable," Travis said. "Vulcans will harden their embargo against Denobula after our victory."

"The bastards," Archer swore.

"They will be avenged," Shran promised.

Words. They were empty words. _All_ of them.

"Oh, no no no... No gloomy faces today," Commander Tucker's voice sounded at their backs.

He drew among them, a bright smile on his face, and his cheeks red partly with excitement, partly with alcohol. It made it difficult to see him as the only man who could incorporate Andorian technology into Human engines. But then, hiding his own ability was part of Trip's personality. "I forbid anybody to be sombre."

"_I_ am the Captain," Archer protested.

"Yeah, I got that in battle, when you were ordering 'more speed, you moron!'"

"If you weren't the best Engineer in Earthfleet _and_ my best friend, I would have strangled you long ago."

"Ohhhh... I'm scared, Captain Bravado."

"Captain Bravado?" Travis asked.

"A long story that you don't need to know about," Archer answered before Trip could.

Commander Tucker burst out laughing. "Oh, all right, all right! Don't get angry. Let's make a toast. For the intrepid Jonathan Archer, Captain of the _Enterprise_!"

The glasses collided and part of the champagne spilled. Travis frowned. Such a waste of alcohol. Trip seemed to notice he was there for the first time. "_And_, of course," he added, "for Travis Mayweather, Captain of the _Horizon_!"

People raised their glasses once more, even the ones at a distance, like Lieutenant Sato, who managed a fleeting smile.

And for a moment, Travis felt almost happy.


	2. The Worst of Times

Deputy Director Soval pondered how much efficiency had decreased in the last five years. They hadn't changed their procedures after any important battle (a meeting of the staff officers, the Intelligence Service chiefs and the Cabinet), they never changed the agenda; even the people brought together were the same (apart from some casualties because the war). But, somehow, every meeting resolved fewer things than the previous one.

Losing miserably had a negative effect on Vulcans, it seemed.

"This is evident proof of your department's inefficiency," Fleet Admiral Stivor said, pointing at Soval.

Reproaches and cross accusations, that was what they were reduced to.

"I must remind the Fleet Admiral that my agents obtained the enemy's plans. It was the poor organization of the War Ministry that caused that information to be delayed," Soval answered.

Minister Kuvak didn't utter a word, just tucked a finger between his neck and the robe, as if he was trying to ease the tension.

"This is no time for criticism," Administrator V'Las said, intervening.

"I agree," Director General V'Lar said in a soothing tone. "It is our next action that should be the focus of our conversation."

"Indeed," V'Las said. "Our situation is... _delicate_."

"We have lost the Passage of Karadh'ss," Fleet Admiral Stivor hissed, very near to losing self-control.

Soval arched a brow. Stivor had the useless gift of pointing out what was obvious.

"Yes, Stivor, there is little point in reminding us of that," V'Lar said.

"There _is_," he retorted. "All of our tactics relied on the fact that we _controlled _that space corridor."

"We don't now," V'Lar replied and her usually amiable face darkened by an aggressive shadow. "So we will have to build a new strategy."

"It is not the _what_ that should preoccupy us, but the _how_," Kuvak said, attracting the gaze of every Vulcan in the room.

"Those new ships," Stivor hissed. "Especially that _Enterprise_."

Obvious point number two.

"The hybrid Andorian/Human technology is more effective than we thought," V'Las said. Soval felt an illogical uneasiness. Controlling anxiety was usual in any Vulcan, but V'Las was _too calm_.

"Their maneuverability is a problem," Admiral Vanik agreed. His head was bandaged and he had his right arm in a sling. Soval suspected he would rather be here, with his mind occupied with such problems, than alone and facing the death of three quarters of his men. "Our ships are too slow in turning."

"_We_ were too slow adjusting our tactics to their ships," V'Lar spoke out.

The staff officers received that lecture with an icy stare.

"_What_ we do now?" Soval redirected the conversation to the main topic again.

"Without the Passage, our Army is torn in two and we suffer the danger of being isolated in our own system, without the possibility of receiving supplies," Stivor said. "Not to mention the menace represented by Humans being able to freely do commerce with the Klingon Empire."

Yes, that answered what _could_ happen, but not what they _should do_ to prevent it.

"We are not totally isolated," V'Las said.

"Having to go through territory of the Orion Syndicate is almost as good as being cut off," Vanik answered.

"We could do it," V'Las said.

"We can't fight against Earth, Andoria _and_ Orion," Stivor argued and for the first time, Soval agreed.

"Not alone, but we could gather allies," V'Las explained.

"_Allies_," Soval said, stunned. "What allies?"

V'Las's face went blank for a fleeting second. "Today I've received a visit from an Emissary." His gaze went from one Vulcan to the other, until he had covered the room. "From the Romulan Empire."

There was audible agitation among those present. The mention of Romulans or anything to do with them was one of the few things that could disturb Vulcans.

"What do they want?" V'Lar asked. Her mastery to focus on the matter at hand was one of her best-known talents (and the one that had taken her to her post). At her back, her Personal Aide T'Pau was betraying a very clear look of disgust.

"They want to help us," V'Las answered.

"Let me rephrase the question: What did they _really_ want?"

"As I've said, they want to help us. Much has happened between us in all this time, but still, they consider us family and they don't want us to perish."

"They consider our species to be onepeople," V'Lar pointed out. "Assimilation is one of their strongest purposes."

"They've assured me that it is _not _their intention. They have assured me that it is simply an offer of military support against our enemies."

Soval fought the need to snort. Romulans didn't give _anything_ without wanting something in return. Everybody knew that.

"The truth is we need help. _Any_ help," Stivor said.

Well, not everybody, apparently.

"My point, exactly," V'Las said. "In any other circumstances I would turn down their offer, but right now..."

"Did you accept their help?" V'Lar asked, obviously astonished.

"Of course not, I told him I needed to consult first with you." He gave her a patronizing look. "_However_ it is my deepest conviction that we can't win this war without help." He paused to look at the others; some of them, more than Soval was ready to acknowledge, nodded in approval. "And their offer of assistance is the only one we have."

"Must we decide and vote this subject in _this _meeting?" V'Lar asked. "It would be best if we _meditated_ on the repercussions of your news and voted accordingly in another assembly called for that purpose."

"I agree," Soval supported, seeing her attempt to gain time.

"Well, then, we will need to make an appointment soon," V'Las conceded.

The gathered group dispersed not much later. Some of the Vulcan military and almost all the Cabinet stayed in the room (and Soval took note of who they were), but most of those present went out to attend their duties. Soval and V'Lar (along with her Aide) left the room together.

And this was not just because they were part of the Intelligence Service and she was his boss. "Romulans," V'Lar mumbled as they walked down the corridor.

"It is not a wise move," Soval said.

"You're being generous," she said sardonically. "It is _more_ than unwise."

"But it isn't the first time he reaches a debatable decision. Even if those decisions have proven to be efficient."

"He was chosen Administrator for a reason, young Soval."

He scowled at the appellation: she used to call him that when she was his mentor. "Most of his choices have been successful, but I can't help thinking that they have affected Vulcan in more ways than they should. And I'm not just talking about our delicate situation in the war."

"The things we've had to allow," V'Lar agreed. "Things that go against our heritage, our beliefs. Like the _kres-pakik_."

Soval nodded. Growing a battalion of Vulcan berserkers wasn't, in his opinion, the best idea Vulcans had ever had, even if it worked. "But _this_..." Soval murmured.

V'Lar made a silencing gesture with her hand, then looked backward, at T'Pau. "Go to the office and wait me there," she ordered her.

T'Pau nodded and went away. Anger was almost glowing from her eyes and Soval wondered what was affecting her so much.

"Your Aide seems disturbed," he told V'Lar.

"She is young. She has much to learn. Especially self-control." She looked away, her expression guarded. "You were saying..."

"This idea of an alliance with the Romulan Empire verges on madness. Romulans only want to conquer. We have years of history to prove that. It matters not what they've offered, or what they've told V'Las."

"Are you assuming that he is being deceived?"

"It is _very_ difficult to deceive V'Las. And isn't it strange that he was able to receive an Emissary we know nothing about?"

V'Lar put a hand on his arm, almost as if she needed his support, and threw him an intense gaze.

"Are you implying that V'Las is pushing us toward the Romulans _deliberately_?" she asked, her voice darker.

"I imply nothing. But I assure you, if I find out, I will _say_ it out loud."

"If you say so... Make the inquiries you think you need." Her tone seemed light, her stare, however, was very wary. "Just a warning, Soval. If somebody asks me, I know _nothing_."

Soval didn't even bother to nod. That would look as if he was following orders or something; which he wasn't, of course.

He had a plan, a duty to perform. He wasn't going to sit down and wait while several things he didn't understand were happening around him, threatening Vulcan's welfare.

Soval needed their best agent.

He needed T'Pol.


	3. Doom Patrol

The antagonism between Archer and Admiral Black is something I've taken from Rigil's stories. I don't know if it's an original idea of his own or if others authors do it too, but it's in his stories where I first read it.

Thanks to **Alelou**, my beta, who is going to notice the word "competence" immediately.

* * *

Trip rubbed his left hand with the cloth. There was no use: the sticky coating fluid was glued to it like a second skin. He should have gone to the bathroom and cleaned himself, but he was already late.

It wasn't as if he wanted to go to the meeting, though. In fact, he had spent most part of the morning in Engineering just in case a sudden malfunction might require his complete attention.

Tactical meetings. He hated them. As time went by, his hatred had created the popular belief that he was too much of a simpleton to understand strategy. He even encouraged that belief in an attempt to elude the meetings. It hadn't worked, of course; as one of the senior officers he was forced to attend them.

The truth was that Trip _did_ understand strategy quite well -he could understand fluid mechanics, after all- but he didn't enjoy the discussions. They were always held just after a battle, when the corpses were still warm, win or lose, a perpetual reminder that the war hadn't ended.

Possibly it never would. Not in this life.

So Trip entered the Bridge and headed for the Situation Room. Once there, he tried to take a place next to Lieutenant Sato as quietly as he could.

Everybody was watching Admiral Forrest talking on the screen. Captain Archer turned his head to throw Trip an accusatory glare. The Commander shrugged apologetically. Arched turned back again with a grunt.

"Did I miss something important?" Trip asked Sato in a whisper.

"If you consider a bunch of Admirals kissing each other asses over a victory they didn't fight as 'something important'..." she answered.

Trip smirked. Hoshi's irony was sharper than Shran's Ushann-Tor.

"Did they say anything about the great victory _we_ have achieved?"

"Oh, yes, twice. You missed Travis's grimace each time."

The aforementioned had his eyes fixed on the screen, as did everybody else, but his dark mood seemed to surround him like a fog. The grey uniform that characterized him as a Boomer didn't help to diminish that impression.

"Here are the calculations you requested," Hoshi whispered.

She gave him a padd. Trip took it -taking care not to touch her hand- with a momentary feeling of frustration.

"You've had all morning to give me this," he mumbled.

"You've been in Engineering the entire time."

That was all the explanation she needed. Hoshi never went near the engines, she disliked them. Correction: she felt a pathological hatred for them. They were just one of the many things she couldn't bear. Hoshi Sato was full of phobias, so many that she should have been declared incompetent to be onboard _Enterprise_. But she was also a genius. Earthfleet was too desperate to reject a math wiz.

"You could order somebody to give me this if you didn't want- have time to go to Engineering," Trip said. Hoshi's eccentric behaviour bothered him sometimes.

"It wasn't _so_ urgent. Besides, all my crewmen were checking the sensor array."

Trip was going to argue further when Archer's intimidating stare shut him up. Trip felt suddenly like a rebellious child at class.

"Captain," Forrest said, to regain his attention.

Archer turned to look at him, "Yes, sir?"

"We were talking about the prisoners," Admiral Black's voice said. His tone bordered on adversarial.

"Yes, sir, the Vulcan prisoners. I _am_ listening." Archer's voice swam with genuine antagonism.

"The information we got from them is encouraging," Forrest said, in a clear move to appease them.

Commander Shran straightened up the moment he heard about the Vulcans spilling information. Gathering data from the enemy was an Andorian competence. Trip knew perfectly well how they got that information from the legendarily insensitive Vulcans and his stomach clenched involuntarily. Then he chided himself. Vulcans weren't exactly Carmelite nuns.

"... nother strike," Forrest was saying when Trip focused on his words again. "But according to the prisoners, the Vulcan fleet isn't preparing a counterattack."

"Can we trust them, sir?" Archer asked.

"We can trust they told us what they knew."

"It is unlikely that they will reunite the remaining ships to recover the Passage," Black said. "Intelligence estimates that they lost almost 40% of their ships. We obliterated Admiral Vanik's fleet. The second front is nothing more than disorganized remains. They can't attack and win. They won't do it. It would be illogical."

Trip cracked a smile.

"Without the cover of most of the Surak and Sh'Ran Surak type ships, recapturing the Passage is impossible for them," Shran agreed.

"Then it's a perfect time to deliver the _coup de grace_," Archer said.

"It's a perfect time to surround Vulcan," Black retorted.

"Are you going to allow the defeated fleet to reconstitute itself?" Archer asked.

"According to our sources, most part of the fleet on the secondary front will return to the first front," Forrest said.

"Without the Passage it'll take time," Black added. "We must reinforce our offensive on the first front before it happens."

"Very well, sir," Captain Ramirez's voice sounded. He was on his own ship, interconnected with the rest via sub-space communication. "Give the order and we will follow you into battle."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Fleet Admiral Forrest looked briefly at the other staff officers out of screen before talking again. "Although it's true that a great part of the ships on the secondary front will abandon it, the truth is that there is _still_ a secondary front. The Vulcans won't leave it, not completely."

"The purchase of weapons from the Klingon Empire is essential for them," Black added. "Especially now that they've lost so many vessels."

"Then we should take a squadron to hunt them down once and for all," Archer said. Trip could sense his piled up anger.

"Too risky," Forrest answered.

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Archer asked through clenched teeth.

"You are going to patrol the Passage," Black informed.

Archer had opened his mouth to reply when Forrest cut him off: "Every deal the Vulcans carry out with the Klingon Empire will require subterfuge. Going around Orion territory is just too long and dangerous for them. It's a sure thing that they'll use undercover ships."

"The Passage is a strategic point," Black said, his voice severe and his stare fixed on Archer. "It was for the Vulcans and so it is for us now."

"So how are we going to do it? Are we going to stop every ship we meet?" Archer asked.

"Of course not," Forrest answered, seeming almost amused. "We will use the same system Vulcans used. We've talked with representatives of other species and we've reached an agreement: we will allow their commerce and they'll allow our control of the Passage. Every ship of every system that accepted the agreement will have a password. Everyone that doesn't have one is suspicious and we can board it."

"Vulcans will get a password someday," Travis said. Since he rarely spoke in those meetings his words seemed more powerful than any other's.

"Eventually, yes," Forrest agreed. "But it'll take time and besides, we can investigate and board any ship we consider suspicious. I only ask some prudence to prevent any diplomatic issues."

"And what about the Orions?" Shran asked. "We will be patrolling near their frontier."

"We talked to their leaders. They assured us that no officially sanctioned attacks will occur."

"The Orion Syndicate never _sanctions_ any attack, they just happen," Shran reminded them.

"Very well," Archer said. Capitulation had made his shoulders slump. "How many ships will you assign us?"

"A Task Unit."

Surprise made Archer choke and Travis frown. Trip noticed that the other Boomer captains looked about as happy as he did.

"A Task Unit? For the entire sector?" Captain Archer shouted.

"It is more than enough for the job," Admiral Black said.

"And what if we're attacked? What if Vulcans take advantage of our obvious vulnerability?"

"I concur, these are reasonable concerns." Captain Talas's voice sounded on the screen.

"They won't," Forrest assured. "They will be too busy avoiding our assault."

"I hope you're right, sir," Archer mumbled. He rubbed his nose with his thumb and index fingers. Exhaustion had turned his skin grey. "And who will be at charge of this operation?"

"A newly-appointed Commodore." Black answered. His eyes almost glowed with contained malice. "Commodore Hernández"

Trip crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive gesture, although he knew it was pointless. A dank chill seemed to hang in the air.

"Can we trust somebody who lacks experience?" Captain Talas asked off screen.

"I can vouch for her," Archer croaked. He had his face covered by a hand. His shoulders were so sunken that he almost looked as if he were in penitence.

Trip felt a deep sympathy for his friend. Those who didn't know anything about Archer's past were staring at him with obvious bewilderment.

"I served with Captain, now Commodore Hernández and I can assure you that she is a capable professional," Malcolm said.

"And I'm sure that no personal issue will cloud your relationship with her," Black said to Archer, earning a killing glare from Forrest.

Against all odds, Archer straightened up. "We all are professionals," he declared.

"Good," Forrest asked. "Any more questions, gentlemen?"

If there were, nobody uttered them out loud.

"Then I can declare this meeting over. The Andorians will receive detailed instructions from their superiors."

Admiral Thoris, at Forrest's left, nodded absently. Trip always found surprising the lack of interaction and interest Andorians showed in these assemblies. The staff officers seldom spoke and they opposed Human strategies even less. Trip had seen them fight and he didn't doubt their loyalty, but sometimes they reminded him of crouched cats, just waiting to pounce at them at the slightest chance.

"The same goes for the Boo- the captains from the Earth Interstellar Commerce Consortium," Forrest added. "Wait for instructions from your command staff."

The men in grey suits nodded gravely. The Fleet Admiral performed an acquiescent nod of his own and cut the communication.

The black screen was an apt reflection of their mood.

The silent atmosphere was shattered by Archer's hand hitting the table. "Damn him!" he exclaimed.

Most of the Boomers observed him with severe expressions, but instead of scolding him or asking him anything, they opted for leaving the room. Travis, on the other hand, stayed.

Shran looked at Archer sympathetically. "I understand, Captain. This... patrol assignment is most degrading. We were essential for the last victory, we should be in the first line of fire."

Archer raised his head. His teeth were clenched and his eyes seemed to burn. But he didn't utter a word. Shran, of quick temperament, like any Andorian, was offended by his silence and stormed out of the room. "As good as babysitting," he mumbled as he passed near Trip.

"He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious," Malcolm recited at his back while he followed him, an acid smirk on his lips.

Trip approached Archer right away. He knew his friend needed to vent his frustration as quickly as possible; otherwise it would form a cyst in his soul and alter his behavior for a long time.

"They're Admirals, they know what they are doing," Trip whispered into his ear.

"Please, except for Forrest, Black has most of them wrapped around his little finger. They do what he says and you know as well as I do that he hates me."

"But they are right, the Passage is a strategic point. It must be protected. And who better than us?"

Archer cracked a sardonic smile. "I wish I had your faith. But I'm afraid that this is just politics." Arched punched the table again. "If we lose this war because a glory seeker sees an enemy in me, believe me, I will be the one laughing in Hell." He walked away just as Shran had, almost as indignant.

Trip found himself alone in the room with Travis and Hoshi. Travis's gaze met his own, then shifted to Lieutenant Sato. Travis immediately straightened up in a flesh and blood version of the sculpture of an ancient hero. Trip smiled inwardly; it was obvious, from the man's gestures, that Travis had the hots for Hoshi. If he could see that, Hoshi "Decipher" Sato would notice it even easier. She didn't say or do anything, though. Travis finally removed his gaze from her.

"May I request your help, Commander?" he asked.

"Of course, what's the matter?"

"I'm afraid I'm not sufficiently well versed in mechanics to explain it, but my Engineer told me something isn't working right in our engines and I'd appreciate if you could help us."

"No problem, Captain."

Travis approached Hoshi demurely. "You can go with us, if you like. I'm sure your mathematics skills will be of great help."

Hoshi's stare was impossible to read. "Going with you? To your _engines_?"

"Eh... yes?"

Hoshi snorted. "No, thank you."

"It will only require a moment, just taking the transporter-"

Hoshi stalked away mid-sentence. Travis remained with his mouth open.

"She doesn't like the transporter," Trip forced himself to say. He didn't need to explain Hoshi's behavior, but Travis was so desperately attracted to her that Trip felt moved to pity.

As Captain Mayweather had said, it took only a moment to travel to the _Horizon_. In the instant he took a step on the older ship, he noticed all the differences. He could be blindfolded and still he would know he wasn't on _Enterprise_ anymore. The sounds -- all the little noises and cracks -- made the two ships completely different.

Travis guided him to Engineering and when he entered into the big room, he let a small sigh escape. The _Horizon_ was an old cargo ship turned into a warship, but even then she maintained her original beauty. Her engines told him her epic story, full of travels, damages and sacrifices. Trip had a pet name for a ship like her: "A Classy Lady."

Commander Deschamps, Chief Engineer, met them there. He explained the problem and between the two they explored the engines. Deschamps, an "old space dog," had some suspicions about the problem and the search proved him right: it was a malfunction in the antimatter compression system. It was a common problem in that type of ship and both Engineers were very aware of it. It wasn't serious yet, but it could eventually cause the collapse of the antimatter stream, which _was_ very serious.

Fortunately for them, Trip had a way to prevent it and he got down to work. To his surprise, Travis stayed next to him. After half an hour, Trip couldn't resist: "Do you want to ask something, Captain?"

Travis frowned. "Am I so transparent?"

"Like a display cabinet."

Travis cracked a soft smile.

"Incredible! Captain Mayweather can smile! Isn't it a wonder?"

He pulled a wry face for a second, but then smiled again, with more energy. "I know how to smile. In fact, when I was a child everybody used to tell me I had a great sense of humor."

"Really? And what happened to it?"

Travis got serious again and Trip chided himself for his big mouth. "War happened," Travis answered. "Death happened."

Trip focused on his work again. Usually he was as sensitive as the next person, but after the last battle he really didn't need a sad narration of the Captain's past. He didn't know _exactly_ what happened to him, but he could guess.

"I _do_ have a question, Commander," Travis talked after a while. "I'm afraid is a little personal, though."

"If it's personal, call me Trip."

A fleeting smile. "It isn't personal for you, but OK."

"Is it about the Cap'n?"

"Yes. Look, I don't want to pry, I hate it myself when somebody asks me too many questions, but I must know where I stand."

"Fair enough."

"This Commodore Hernández... Do you know her?"

"Yep." Trip took his time explaining. He needed to put his thoughts in order. And that screw he was trying to loosen was a tiny bastard. "Erika Hernández. She was Captain of the _Challenger_ and lately of _Columbia_."

"Is she good?"

"Competent, serious, but compassionate and clever as hell."

"Where does Captain Archer know her from?"

"They studied together in the Academy. Jon is older and obviously he was her superior."

"And?"

"And..." Trip sighed. "They were married once."

For his credit, Travis seemed amazed only for a second. "They _were_."

"Yes, they're divorced now."

"May I ask you why?"

Trip threw him a nasty glare.

"I know it's none of my business, but if there is still something personal between them and my men suffer any danger from it-"

"Don't worry, they're professionals, as the Cap'n said before." He loosened the damn screw at last. "As far as I know, there is no resentment left between them. They're good friends."

"Then why-? No, it doesn't matter."

Trip turned the little screw in his fingers. "They... Erika asked for the divorce because she's too damn honest."

Travis didn't ask further explanation. Instead, he said: "Did you know them, when they were married?"

"Yeah, I've known Jon for a long time. I was his _best man_ in his wedding."

"I didn't know you were so close. I mean, I knew you knew each other but..."

"Jon tries to treat everybody the same way, he hates favoritism, that's why he always tries to play down our friendship."

"Did you meet in the Academy?"

Trip laughed, sudden memories wrapping him. "Nope. Scuba diving."

"The... _what_?"

"Ah, I forget I'm talking to a Boomer. We met in a class of scuba diving, you know, swimming underwater." He did some gestures with his arms, as if he was actually swimming.

"Oh... Oh, yeah, I've heard about that."

"But you've never seen it."

"No." Travis seemed a little embarrassed.

"A true Boomer, I see. Have you seen the sea, at least?"

"No. I've never been on the planet."

"A real pity. The ocean is wonderful." Trip sighed. "It's the only thing I really miss from Earth. I'm a Florida boy and the sea is a natural part of me."

"Once..." Travis began, then he shut up. He looked at Trip out of the corner of his eye. After a moment of indecision, he decided to go on: "I dreamt once that I saw the ocean."

"Really?"

"Yes." A pause. "It was a fine dream." A longer pause. "But..." Silence.

"But?"

"I have this feeling..." He breathed in. "I feel like I'm never going to see it, not for real. Not while I'm alive."

Trip felt a shiver run down his spine. But he recovered quickly. Melodrama wasn't his thing. "Captain Mayweather, Master of Optimism," he declared.

Travis looked at him with his eyes very open. His irises looked like they were almost burning and his mouth was twisted. Trip feared he had gone too far this time.

And then, for the first time since Trip had known him, Travis Mayweather laughed out loud.


	4. The Constant Listener

**Note:** The Vulcan words come from the Vulcan Language Dictionary. Except the tamr'endi, that's a shameless invention. I have no idea where exactly the Temple of Amonak and Lake Yuron are, so if it's impossible for them to be in the same place, please, forgive me.

My thanks to **Alelou**, who has beta-read this chapter. You rule, girl!

And many thanks to the people that have reviewed the story. I wasn't sure if I was making any sense at all.

* * *

The Temple of Amonak was a refuge. The warrior's rest.

A curious micro-climate had turned that isolated place into an oasis. The vegetation grew there bountifully (by Vulcan standards), and the trees gave a pleasant shade. The heat hurt less. Even the sky was redder.

The rebellious and playful side of T'Pol (the one that she always tried to repress) enjoyed the moment, sunbathing in the sunlight that filtered through the leguminous leaves of a _tamr'endi_. A soft breeze swayed her hair. The stone fence she was leaning on supported her back, so it didn't ache.

There were few moments that T'Pol considered perfect, but this one could be one of them.

Unfortunately, the rational Vulcan side chose that exact moment to remind her: that she wasn't there on vacation, but because she had suffered a back injury in the war.

Because she was a spy.

For an instant, T'Pol felt the exhaustion from all those years of fighting in her bones, like splinters in the joints, but she fought against that vacuous melancholy. Instead of being swayed away by her memories, she focused on her breathing to reach a state close to meditation.

A shadow over her face wrecked her plans. T'Pol recognised Soval by his scent before he opened his mouth.

"I hope I am not interrupting you."

Deputy Director Soval was prone to conveying apologies without the slightest hint of contrition.

T'Pol opened an eye. It was possible he was a figment of her imagination. He wasn't: her boss was standing in front of her with his usual expression of tense calm. She opened her other eye, too. "What can I do for you, Deputy Director?"

Soval opened his mouth to reply, then he seemed to think it over and opted to say: "How are you? Have you recovered?"

T'Pol felt a frozen knot in the throat. If her boss wasted time in platitudes it meant something serious was happening. She decided to stand up, believing that a conversation between equals was impossible with so great a height difference. The tree's leaves rustled as if to criticize her choice. She ignored it, just as she ignored any other censure.

That was the life of a spy, after all.

"I am satisfactory. Fit for service, if that is what concerns you."

"Are the injuries on your back healed?"

"Yes, they hardly bother me." The truth was that she still felt the skin taut and sometimes, if she did an abrupt movement, it hurt as if somebody was burning her with acid, but she didn't say it. Maybe it was just superstition, but she was convinced that the less she talked about it, the less time it would take to heal.

"That's good news. It was a serious injury."

T'Pol tried to erase from her mind the silver curve the knife had traced before sinking into her dorsal muscle. The blade had nicked her spinal column. "It is unimportant. What matters is that I was able to give you the information."

"Uselessly," Soval hissed. "Our agents risk their life only for the War Ministry to delay, lose or mislay their data."

Any trace of contentment that T'Pol could harbour evaporated with that last comment.

"I have heard about the casualties," she whispered.

"Casualties that could have been prevented if your news had arrived on time." Soval clenched his teeth and looked away. "We not only could have repelled their attack, but we also could have taken advantage of it to hit them by surprise. But those useless formalities of the Ministry…"

"It is pointless to regret it now."

For a moment Soval's skin went through a diversity of colour shades: from yellowish-white to bright green to go back to ashen again. He fixed his cuffs in a reflex gesture. "Regretting what happened is like shouting to the stones to make them move," he mumbled.

It was strange to hear him reciting Surak. Soval always had been a practical man, too engrossed in the present time and how it affected the future to spend his time on philosophy. Paradoxically, he respected the Father of Vulcan Logic more than many fanatical priests that gave mere lip service, because unlike them, Soval put Surak's teachings _into practice_ instead of just talking about them.

T'Pol opened her mouth, but a bloodcurdling shriek interrupted her. It seemed to come from the stones themselves, but then another scream let her pinpoint its origin in one of the Temple gates dug into the mountain. On its arch T'Plana-Hath's statement was carved: _"Logic is the cement of our civilization with which we ascend from chaos using reason as our guide."_ Through the arch she could see a Vulcan strapped down on a gurney. Another vain attempt at _kres-pakik_. Turning Vulcans into functional berserker warriors was a difficult process. Roughly 70% were lost to perpetual madness and fury.

The mad Vulcan was escorted by a trio of acolytes who ignored his cries, curses and shaking.

Behind the procession, T'Pol's second foremother, High Priestess T'Mir, was moving forward, leaning on a cane. And next to her was T'Pau. T'Pol threw a vitriolic glare at Soval.

"She found out that I was coming and she asked to accompany me." He did not flinch from T'Pol's icy stare. "I had no reason to refuse and you know it."

She felt an unpleasant weight in her stomach. She would rather have avoided T'Pau until she could be in more propitious circumstances. She sighed. Circumstances would never be good, not while she was a spy.

Both T'Mir and T'Pau were following the gurney with the maddened Vulcan. Perhaps they would go straight past without noticing her presence…

It didn't happen. Her second foremother stopped in the middle of the atrium and turned toward her. Her gaze radiated unyielding authority. T'Pau's shone with nervous expectation; her mastery in controlling her expression was flawed.

The acolytes kept moving, surely to take the Vulcan to one of the "Special Rooms of Recovery." There were only three things in the Temple of Amonak: priests, injured people and madmen. Although it was possible that the first two were synonyms of the latter. The _kres-pakik_'s screams disappeared on the inside, but perhaps because of some mysterious property of the atrium, they seemed to linger in the air.

"I think we should approach them," Soval whispered to her ear.

Of course, you had to go to the High Priestess, the High Priestess never went to you. T'Pol had learnt this when she was just a child. She and Soval walked toward the waiting couple, and while Deputy Director bowed his head, T'Pol kept hers raised, proud without being arrogant.

"Second Foremother," she offered when she reached the old woman's side. She only felt Soval's surprise, but she saw T'Pau's: her eyes opened more than was recommended.

High Priestess T'Mir, Worshipful Mistress of the Temple of Amonak, Protector of Surak's Word and one of the members of the Synod, arched a brow, amused. If people didn't treat her with so many respect and revered her almost like a mythological figure, they would find out that the old woman had a relaxed character. Mostly.

"Patient number 135," she answered.

Soval snorted and hid his slip with a couple of coughs. T'Pau opened her eyes even more, although she controlled herself quickly to say: "Sister."

T'Pau always used that form of address, maybe as a way to reaffirm the bonds that connected her to the people around her. Her parents' death had left her alone in the world and T'Pol supposed that wound still bled inside her. Each time she greeted T'Pol this way, her face would assume a vulnerable quality, and once more T'Pol would see the shy girl that her parents had adopted. She always seemed to wait anxiously for T'Pol's answer, which inevitably was: "T'Pau."

The younger Vulcan tried to hide her disappointment. She had never told T'Pol in so many words, but T'Pol was sure that T'Pau thought she didn't like her or that she regretted they were family. Nothing was further from the truth. T'Pol had been a solitary child, reserved even by Vulcan standards, but once she had an adopted sister everything changed. T'Pau always wanted to be with her, talk with her, play with her, spend the time with her. Sometimes she was a little annoying. But she was the only one who always was there and T'Pol was grateful for that, above all when her father died. T'Pau understood that better than anybody. If T'Pol never called T'Pau "sister" it was first out of embarrassment (the child T'Pol had suffered a heavy self-awareness) and later because of her entry into the Intelligence Service.

Family was a double-edged sword for a spy: it was the fuel and the brake of all her actions. Of course she cared for her family and obviously she wanted to protect them; that was why she treated them with calculated coldness. If it looked like she didn't care about them, nobody would attack them. Besides, if she died it would soften the hit to her loved ones. And it was very probable that she would die sooner rather than later, considering her way of life.

"How is our patient doing this morning?" T'Mir asked.

"I am fine, madam."

T'Mir's eyes flashed and alighted on Soval. "As I see, you have a distinguished visitor. To what do we owe this honor, Deputy Director?"

"I'm here merely as a friend of the family."

"Of course, why else?"

T'Pol was sure that her second foremother knew her real job, but concealed it for the good of everyone. Most people didn't know her post and even the ones who knew she worked for the Intelligence Service weren't really aware of what she did. It was impossible that anything said there would get beyond the walls of the temple, but there was no harm in exercising caution.

"It is very generous of you to make time in your busy schedule to visit a mere Lieutenant," T'Mir said.

"I appreciate her. She is not only a good soldier, but also a considerate sentient being."

"Oh, yes. She is like the berries of the _Pel-tar'uk_: sweetness among poisonous spines."

T'Mir put her index finger under T'Pol's chin, without touching it, as if she was contemplating a fragile artifact. T'Pol felt a little intimidated, and very young. After two heavy seconds, T'Mir extended her other arm and made a similar gesture toward T'Pau. The old woman looked alternatively at one and the other. "My two great-granddaughters are very accomplished Vulcans. Don't you think so, Deputy Director?"

"Absolutely, Mistress."

T'Pau could maintain a neutral expression, but her shoulders raised and all of her seemed to glow from inside. She swelled with pride. T'Pol knew that if the simple fact of being considered part of the family was very important for her sister, a compliment coming precisely from High Priestess T'Mir was an honor that verged on a blessing from Surak himself. T'Pau was very fond of religion and Surak's philosophy. If it weren't for the war, probably she would have begun her path as an acolyte. It was a very commendable trait in her —T'Pol had cherished memories of T'Pau as a child, reading _"The Teachings of Surak"_ to her under their garden's tree— but dangerous too. T'Pau was too idealistic, too convinced that Surak's ideas could solve everything.

T'Pol had no idea how she made her ethics compatible with her work as Director General V'Lar's Personal Aide.

T'Pau shifted, a common nervous gesture of hers (although only noticeable to T'Pol) and addressed her sister: "It is agreeable to see you healthy. Even though Mother and I knew nothing about your injuries, it is good to have news of you."

T'Pol blinked at the gibe. For being adopted, T'Pau took after her mother more than she did.

"I didn't think it necessary to tell you anything about it. They were superficial wounds and I wasn't in mortal danger. Bothering you and your work for something like that would be presumptuous of me." She gave her a meaningful stare. "And very unprofessional."

"Of course," T'Pau mumbled, so low that it would have been inaudible if it weren't for the atrium's perfect acoustics. She played with a small wood box between her hands. "Mother sends her regards."

"Send her mine when you return." T'Pol's voice didn't just said goodbye, it led her sister to the door and pushed her outside.

T'Pau turned the box in her hands once more, then offered it to T'Pol. "Mother wants you to have this."

T'Pol took it with a slight feeling of apprehension. Knowing her mother, it could be anything. The box was plain and didn't have any distinctive characteristics. When she opened it, T'Pol gulped. It was an IDIC. A plain, unimportant and useless IDIC. Nevertheless, it was probably one of the most personal gifts she ever received.

She looked at T'Pau. She suspected that gift wasn't just her mother's idea. "Does Mother want me to have this?"

"Yes, as…as a symbol of…" T'Pau faltered. Her oratory was always irreproachable, so she had to be nervous.

"A symbol of the diversity and vastness of the universe," T'Mir finished for her. "It is a corporeal reminder of how small we are. No more than a drop in the sea. Too ignorant to comprehend all the enigmas of this life. Only a thread of the entire tapestry."

It was obviously an attack against them, as soldiers. High Priestess T'Mir had always been against the war. She was a traditional Vulcan.

T'Pol wasn't in the mood to argue with her. "Father had an IDIC like this," she said as her only rebuke.

"It _is_ father's," T'Pau said as if it that was nothing unusual.

T'Pol's hand trembled involuntarily. Suddenly, the small box seemed to weight tons. All the anger she had suppressed those years strived to make its way to her conscience, and she had to breathe in and out several times, very slowly, to recover her self-control. She opened the container again and stared at the IDIC. She remembered her father showing it to her and explaining its meaning. She remembered the smell of fresh _gespar_ and her sehlat's growls each time it tried to take the IDIC with a swipe and failed.

"You should return it to Mother," she managed to say, between clenched teeth. "It is too precious for me to wear."

"That is why you should wear it," T'Pau answered. "Because it's precious for you."

"I might lose it."

"You would lose your arm before you lost it," her second foremother said. She took the pendant and put it around T'Pol's neck.

"It looks agreeable on you," Soval said. He had been silent all that time, maybe assuming it was a family matter, and his voice sounded a little tight.

T'Pol took the IDIC. It was warm to the touch. Everything was, on Vulcan, but this one was a different kind of warmth.

"Now, if you excuse me, I must return to my obligations," T'Mir said.

"Of course," T'Pol replied and bowed. "High Priestess."

"T'Pol."

T'Pau stepped forward. "Sister."

Anxiety.

"T'Pau."

Disappointment.

The younger Vulcan followed her second foremother's stride. T'Mir's blue robes contrasted against the auburn rocks of the temple and she looked almost like a luminous flame while she walked away.

"You are too harsh with her," Soval said when they were alone.

T'Pol threw him a sour glare, "Deputy Director, don't interfere in my family's affairs and I won't interfere in yours."

"It was only advice."

"I am not a child anymore."

He turned his head toward her then. His eyes were a grayish hue of blue and despite of it, they were dull. The wrinkles at their side revealed his age and his fatigue. "No, you are not a child. You are an adult Vulcan working for me in the Intelligence Service." He bent toward her. "Can we talk in a more private place?"

T'Pol doubted there could be a more secluded location than the one they were in, but didn't argue. She extended her hand before her and guided Soval through the cobbled paving road that ascended to the viewpoint to the lake.

They walked along it in silence for a while.

"We had the usual meeting with the Cabinet two days ago," Soval talked at last. "The loss of the Passage of Karadh'ss has been catastrophic for us. Half of the High Command doesn't know what to do now and the other half doesn't have any good ideas."

"Surely it is—"

"We are going to lose the war."

Their steps sounded strangely hollow, muffled by the cliff. Soval's voice, on the other hand, bounced against the rocks and created a small echo.

Soval narrowed his eyes. "Our ships are slow, our tactics are obsolete and our species, as you know, is too reluctant to change. If nothing changes, however, we are doomed to defeat." He looked beyond her and the stone balustrade. A portion of Lake Yuron was already visible. "But in this case, defeat is better than the alternative."

"What did the Cabinet suggest?"

"Suggest?" Soval seemed about to snort. "Administrator V'Las, in his great wisdom, talked to us about a new ally that was very eager to help Vulcan."

"An ally?" That was a pleasant surprise. "Who?"

"The Romulans."

T'Pol had to stop. The breeze had stopped and the air had become heavy and rarefied. That was why it was difficult to breathe. Yes, that was the only explanation.

"Do you expect the Romulans to attack us because we turned their offer down?"

"Oh, but we _didn't_ turn it down."

"I beg your pardon?" Her back ached, her back ached so much…

Soval resumed his walking. T'Pol, fighting her pain, followed him. Her steps were trembling.

"Administrator V'Las didn't ignore the Romulans' suggestion. In fact, we haven't decided yet. There will be another meeting to finally decide the matter."

"But he… You'll convince him, you will decide to refuse any kind of assistance from _them_."

"We could do with their help."

"That is madness."

Soval bowed his head. An invisible weight seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. "It is consoling to know that your opinion is the same as mine." He sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, more people than I expected are willing to accept Romulans as allies."

"You don't."

"No. They are Romulans, they always have an ulterior motive."

"And you want me to find out what it is."

The slope became steep in the last stretch. Soval had to lift up his robes' hem to keep climbing. "Your mission, agent Sa'awek, if you accept it, will be to infiltrate in the Romulan Empire. I want you to find out what are their plans, if they have a conquering force ready and, most importantly, if they have spies infiltrated into the High Command." Soval glanced sideways briefly. "And whether one of those possible collaborators is Administrator V'Las himself."

T'Pol swallowed. The slope was too steep. That was it. "You suspect Administrator V'Las to be—"

"Yes."

"That opinion could cost you your post."

"Indeed. In fact, it could cost me my head. Defamation of the Vulcan Leader in war times is considered _treason_." He approached T'Pol until he was so near she could feel his body heat. "But if I'm right and there is a conspiracy and he is involved… Then Vulcan is condemned."

T'Pol went ahead of him several steps. They had reached the balcony where it opened up over the lake and she felt relieved to be walking a flat surface again. The gridof the tiled floor had been eroded by the time, making the crimsons brown and the greens faint.

"I need your help, T'Pol," Soval said behind her.

"Yes, I know, that is why I'll help you." She almost heard his relieved sigh. "Everyone needs my help lately, it seems." She turned round and saw his puzzled expression. "I've received a message from the Cabinet today. According to it, Administrator V'Las himself has entrusted me with a mission."

"Oh, how _convenient_. What is it?"

"My apologies, Deputy Director, but I'm not authorized to tell you."

Few things could surprise Soval, but those words did.

"Don't make yourself uneasy," T'Pol calmed him down. "It has nothing to do with you." _That_ she could say.

"I see…" He walked up and down for a couple of seconds. "When must you set off?"

"Tomorrow morning." T'Pol paused a moment. Maybe it was a little risky to give away so much information, but she decided to do it. This was Soval, after all. "I leave for Risa and expect to spend about a week there."

"Risa? That is very close to the Passage of Karadh'ss."

"I know, but it doesn't trouble me. Risa is an intergalactic retreat. Humans will never control or guard it. And I don't fear Human spies." Her attempt at a joke went unnoticed. "However, to carry out your mission, it will be necessary for me to get a ship on Risa and cross the Passage."

"Isn't there any other way?"

"Not right now. And not if I want to do it under the High Command's radar."

"Can't you deceive the Cabinet, tell them you are still convalescing?"

T'Pol felt a fleeting irritation that she quickly repressed. Then a brief sentiment of compassion blossomed in her chest. If Soval was acting behind the High Command's back, telling her things that could cost him his life, asking for her help… it meant he really believed what he said. And Soval seldom made a mistake. However…

"Deputy Director Soval, you are my superior, a dear friend of the family, you were comrade of my deceased father, and I have known you since I was a child. You have been my tutor, my mentor, and I trust you with my life, but my first and foremost loyalty is to _Vulcan_. I will investigate your suggestion because it is you, but right now, any instruction from the Cabinet has priority. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Good." She was suddenly aware of her words and all her belligerence disappeared. "I convey my apologies if my language has been harsh."

"No, you were right. It was presumptuous of me to assume you will simply step away from your commitments and jump into a perilous mission conceived by vague suspicions."

"Our work is based on vague suspicions."

This time Soval got the joke: his mouth's sides lifted a millimetre. As with all precious things, it was rare and ephemeral. Soval's usual frown appeared again.

"It is a very dangerous mission," he said.

"I know."

"You are not obliged to fulfil it."

"I'm equally aware of that."

"It is not official or sanctioned and if somebody asks me about it or about you…"

"I am alone." _I am always alone_, she thought, but didn't say out loud. They took it for granted. Of course it was dangerous. All missions were. But if she wanted a safe life, she wouldn't be a spy. It was war, people couldn't choose their obligations.

She turned round to look at the landscape. Clouds drew chiaroscuros on the turquoise surface of the lake. The mountains, blunted by erosion, stood out against the red sky.

It was breathtaking and T'Pol memorized it and kept it into a hidden corner of her mind. It would be a beautiful image to remember before dying.

She did this naturally. With no complaint, no melodrama.

This was the life of a spy.


	5. Peekaboo

This chapter is slightly more… light. I hope people bear with me in this one. I promise action in two chapters! I don't promise it will be good, but there will be some.

Thanks to **Alelou**, who beta-read it even if she was busy gardening.

And thanks to all the reviewers. Much appreciated, honest.

Oh, and sorry to the fans of pigeon shooting. No offense intended.

* * *

When Jonathan Archer was twelve, his best friend Tim's father took both of them hunting. Even if the war had fallen into a lull (one that would last roughly three years), time off and hobbies were a luxury, and hunting could only be practiced by a few, so Jon felt privileged. The experience, however, disappointed him. Instead of the safari-style adventure he had created in his mind (the result of reading too many novels by Emilio Salgari) he had stumbled into ordinary pigeon shooting. They spent hours sitting at their posts, watching clouds go past and, occasionally, when they saw that some flock was flying over them, the adults raised their guns, aimed and shot. With luck, if they hit, Jon could go for a walk to recover the birds. But not much more. Jonathan Archer discovered something that day: remaining still in the same place and waiting patiently for prey to go past him wasn't something he liked. In fact, it was one of the things he hated most.

And now, Earthfleet had ordered him to do exactly that.

Had had spent two weeks patrolling the Passage of Karadh'ss already and he was about to pull his hair out. It wasn't as if he preferred battle, because that wasn't true, but he needed action, some kind of movement; sedentary life killed him. Even some new conversation would have helped…but the aliens who crossed the passage —Archer had discovered — didn't have time or didn't feel like talking. Obviously he didn't reproach them for it: for them, striking up a conversation with the soldiers who watched the place maybe wasn't the wisest thing.

News from the front was encouraging, at least. Earthfleet, together with the Andorians, was moving forward at a slow but secure pace. They hadn't achieved objectives like freeing Denobula from the embargo yet, but they had secured the defensive line to the Passage. Commodore Hernández was pleased with the news.

Then again, Erika was a born optimist.

Archer sighed, settled in his chair, on the Bridge. As he had told Admiral Black that day at the meeting, he and Erika were professionals and no personal quarrel would cloud their behaviour. Their relationship was professional. In fact, it was _strictly and exclusively_ professional. Hernández treated him with so much coldness that sometimes they didn't even seem to know each other. Keeping their distance was undoubtedly the correct approach, but Jon thought she was going too far.

He sighed again and settled down even further into his seat, leaning his temple on his fist. He turned the chair slightly and looked out of the corner of his eye: Shran was watching the tactical station without seeming bored in the slightest. Archer turned to the other side: Major Reed, sitting at the back of the Bridge, was cleaning his gun. Hoshi was cleaning the science station with a cloth. It was the third time that morning.

Archer caressed the intercom's button. Perhaps he would talk with Trip. That would give him something to do for a few minutes, at least.

A beep from the communications station brought him out his thoughts.

"Unknown ship approaching," Ensign Chadha announced.

"Tellarite," Hoshi said after typing some commands.

"OK, ask them for the password and all of that," Archer murmured, bored.

He could feel, not see, Shran's annoyed gaze. He also could see Chadha hesitate.

"Is something wrong, Ensign?"

"Maybe not, but…"

"But?"

"The password… You know that we changed it three days ago because there was this rumour about—"

"Yes, yes, get straight to the point. What's wrong?"

"This ship has given me the old password."

Any trace of boredom left Archer. He moved forward in his chair, as if he was preparing to catch something. Malcolm left his post with a jump and put himself behind him.

"Hail them," the Captain ordered.

"No response."

"Do it again."

A new beep got out from the communications console. "_Horizon_ asks permission to open a channel," Chadha said.

"Granted. Meanwhile, Hoshi, zoom in on the ship."

The screen in front of him showed the clear image of a little Tellarite freighter. It seemed alone and helpless against the vast starfield.

_"Captain Archer, what's up?"_ Travis' voice asked.

"That ship looks suspicious."

_"Be careful, you could make a mistake and that would be disastrous."_

"We are here for just this kind of eventuality."

_"I know. I'm just saying we must keep our eyes open. We don't want more problems."_

"And if they're Vulcans?"

_"Even if they are. Remember the Vulcan peace convoy of 50 years ago, Captain."_

Archer made a disdainful gesture with his hand, although he was fully aware Travis didn't see him. He didn't feel like remembering how the only chance for peace in History had been wasted.

"Any answer from the ship?" he asked instead.

"No, sir."

"All right, open a channel. If they don't want to talk, at least we'll make them hear us."

"And hope they understand English," Hoshi remarked.

"Earthfleet ship _Enterprise-NX 01_ here. _Enterprise_ to unknown ship, respond. Unknown ship?" Silence. "If you don't answer back we'll board you."

_"Tellarite ship here."_

"Identification and purpose. Now!"

_"The _Tezra_, ship of the Tellarite Union. We carry a shipment of dilithium to Acamar. We request free passage."_

Archer saw Ensign Chadha blink and turn her head to throw Hoshi a puzzled look. Sato cleared a nonexistent speck of dust from her shoulder and stared back.

"What?" the Captain asked.

"That's strange…" Chadha answered.

"_What's_ strange?"

"If they were Tellarites they would never answer like that," Hoshi explained.

"How so?" Archer asked.

"They would have insulted us, our ship and our entire race."

"That's true, Captain." Shran conceded. He was gripping his console.

Major Reed headed for Hoshi's station. His expression was ominous and his eyes were cold. "Can you check something, Lieutenant?" And he murmured some instructions Archer didn't catch.

_"_Tezra_ to _Enterprise_. Once more we express our desire to—"_

Then it sounded as if somebody had approached in a rush and slapped the "Tellarite" captain's head. Some fast and unintelligible whispers were heard, as if two people were arguing.

"Well, I don't know what's exactly happening, but what I know is that they're Vulcan," Shran said. His comment earned the stares of everybody. "We _express our desire?_" he explained.

"You might be right," Archer said. Then he addressed the ship: "_Tezra,_ _Enterprise_ here."

No answer, only indecipherable whispers. And what sounded like somebody being shaken.

"Tezra? _Tezra_?" Archer took breath. "Eh, the people on the ship!"

Complete silence.

"Now that I have your attention… We are experiencing some… uncertainties about your real identity, so, to wipe any possible doubt, I ask you to open the video channel."

"Sir…" Hoshi called.

"Not right now, Lieutenant." He wasted a couple of seconds waiting for an answer. None came. "_Tezra?_"

_"We… It is most unfortunate but—"_

The communication broke abruptly.

"Do I have to take that as a no?"

"Captain…" Hoshi called again.

"Just a moment." Archer cleared his throat and said out loud: "_Enterprise_ to _Tezra_. We need to confirm your identity and for that, we need you to switch on the video. If you don't, we'll feel obliged to board you."

The static that preceded an open communication channel sounded on the Bridge.

_"Don't… be so rude, you… blockhead. Our video is broken and we are unable to—"_ A muffled thud, like somebody covering the speaker. _"Our video is broken, so you will have to be content with the audio. Is there any problem, little Human?"_

"_Captain_."

"Yes, Hoshi?"

"We've discovered something."

Archer turned toward her and opened his arms in the international sign of "I'm waiting." Hoshi narrowed her eyes, but she swallowed the ironic remark she obviously was thinking. "At Major Reed's request I've examined the registration number of the Tellarite ship."

"A week ago Tellarites reported that one of their ships had disappeared on Risa," Malcolm said.

"I remember something about that… I found it strange for an alien species to inform us."

"They killed two birds with one stone, sir. They showed their good disposition and they got the chance to recover the ship."

"Well, if you look at it from that point of view… And what happens? Is the registration number from that stolen ship? Oh, tell me _it is_."

"No, sir. _But_…" Malcolm took a look at Hoshi.

"When the report about the missing ship reached us, I checked and memorized the numbers of all the Tellarite cargo ships," Hoshi said.

"You… What?"

"I have an ideographic memory, Captain, it was quite easy," Hoshi said, playing it down. "Anyway, I've recognized their number."

"And?"

"Captain, the Tellarite ship is moving away," Shran warned. "Slowly, but moving."

"_Enterprise_ to _Tezra_. Stay where you are or we'll open fire against your ship." Archer looked at Shran. "Commander, aim them. And prepare the torpedoes."

"My pleasure, Captain."

"You were saying, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, I've checked their registration number. And… It is _Tezra_'s."

"Oh."

"But I remembered that _that_ particular number wasn't operating in this sector. The real _Tezra_ is crossing Vega and it is impossible for it to have travelled to here." Hoshi swallowed hard and suddenly seemed a little ashamed. "I didn't make the connection when they said the ship's name, only when I saw the number. My brain works like that. I'm… sorry, Captain."

The woman had spent her free hours poring through hundreds (if not thousands) of numbers, memorized them (which was a stunt in itself) and then connected the data to infer a positive result. It was amazing.

"Don't apologize, Lieutenant, you've given us the perfect excuse to engage them." Archer pointed at Malcolm. He tried to sound professional, but couldn't hide his excited voice. "Major, get ready an assault team, we're going to board them."

Malcolm's smirk had the quality of brightening his features and scaring the shit of people at the same time. The MACO nodded once, energetically, and headed for the turbolift. Hoshi used her sleeve to clean the spot where his hand had rested.

Archer decided to address the "Tellarite" ship once more.

"_Tezra_, _Enterprise_ here. We recommend you fix the video, because if you don't and we don't have any proof of your real identity, you'll be boarded in two minutes."


	6. In The Kingdom Of The Blind

Many, many, many thanks to **Alelou**, who edited this even when I torture her delaying Trip and T'Pol's meeting.

And my apologies to the Japanese people. Sorry. It was necessary for the plot Well, maybe not exactly necessary, but… _Gomen nasai_. Really, really sorry.

As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

* * *

T'Pol always worked alone. Always. It was common knowledge in the Intelligence Service that agent Sa'awek never went with a partner or integrated into a surveillance team. Nobody discussed it ever. That was what her name _meant_, after all.

And there were very good reasons why she did so. All of which were in front of her in that exact moment.

Trapped. She was trapped inside a stolen ship, surrounded by Vulcan operatives that didn't know and couldn't do anything, captained by a third string intelligence officer and facing the _Enterprise_.

Of all ships.

She knew something like this would happen in the instant the Cabinet assigned her a teammate: Stel. She didn't know if that was an alias or his real name; the Cabinet didn't even call him "agent." The only thing she could make sense of out of the piles of nonsensical information she had heard was that Stel was part of the Internal Security Service. T'Pol hadn't been impressed: agents of ISS were mostly bodyguards, trained to hit and shoot. They weren't well versed in disguising themselves.

And as she expected, on Risa Stel had stood out as if he were wearing a big sign that read: "Vulcan working. Beware." In principle, it didn't matter. Risa was a free port, a neutral planet that survived by offering pleasure to any species, even if they were mortal enemies. Achieving this was easy: the Risans separated them completely. So she and Stel were provided with accommodations on the opposite side of the planet from where Humans were. Which had forced them to get a way to travel there, since their mission was to spread a series of false facts.

From the beginning T'Pol wondered why the High Command (or more precisely, the Cabinet) had chosen Stel. He didn't seem prepared to help her or even skilled enough to do it. She had her first suspicions during their trip (more like a breakout) to the continent where Humans were accommodated. They had to act as if they were going climbing, then take the opportunity to cross the mountain, go down to the port, take a boat and travel to the next coastal city, where they would disguise themselves as Kriosians and take a flight to their destination. While they were climbing, T'Pol's rope broke and only her quick reflexes saved her from plunging into the void. She saved her life, but not thanks to Stel, who claimed he couldn't lend her a hand. That incident had shown her something: she couldn't count on Stel if something went wrong. The incident had had another consequence: she still suffered the effects of her back injury. She was sure she had worsened it with her stunt.

Which was more than a nuisance, because she was almost sure Stel was there to kill her. T'Pol just couldn't believe it. Were those his orders? Did the Cabinet assign him that mission? And why? Because she was a member of the Intelligence Service? Or because she was Soval's protégé? T'Pol didn't know what was happening, but she was determined to figure it out. And she was also determined that she wasn't going to die at the hands of Stel. He didn't try a direct attempt against her life in the subsequent days, but just in case, T'Pol tried not to give him any chance. She let him go ahead of her and eat or drink anything first. Even so, Stel managed to get her into a fight and then not help her. T'Pol would have taken "permanent measures" against him (even if she disliked the idea), but then the bombshell had come: Apparently, there was a surveillance team already on the planet. Just when she was about to do something about Stel, he informed her that they needed to escort the Vulcan operatives off the planet.

Oh, how convenient, as Soval would say.

T'Pol complied, of course, even if it irritated her only to learn that particular piece of information right then. She didn't have anything against the other Vulcan comrades, who were commanded by an old acquaintance: Commander Sopek. The fact that he didn't have an alias anymore said everything about him. He really wasn't a good field agent. To compensate, he was a competent coordinator. He was ready to acknowledge anybody who did a better job than him, at least. Sopek left the mission in T'Pol's hands willingly and she got ready to do what she was best at: deceiving. She planned the escape of the Vulcan team (_and_ Stel) while at the same time she made a separate agreement for herself to leave with some Ferengi smugglers she knew who were fortunately docked at the planet.

But Stel ruined it. T'Pol was mostly disappointed with herself for letting it happen. She should have been more alert, she should have kept a closer eye on him.

It happened once they were at the Spacedock. They had seized a Tellarite ship. They had captured and tied the Tellarite crewmen's hands and feet, and some of the Vulcans had gone out disguised as technicians to change the registration number from the hull. Others were getting used to the controls in order to leave the place as fast as they could. And then, _then_, Stel alerted her that some Tellarite had managed to run away. She saw the Vulcan standing up, with two dead bodies at his feet, while he pointed at the exit door. T'Pol didn't have time to scold him, she just ran in pursuit, but the position of the corpses and something in Stel's face told her he didn't _need_ to kill those Tellarites. While she ran she wondered what was happening to her own people, for men like Stel to exist? What kind of government allowed that? What kind of leaders condemned their own people to die in suicidal, useless missions? What kind of leaders _killed_ their own people?

Of course, she didn't find the runaway Tellarite, which forced her to initiate the emergency plan. First of all, she let the team know about the situation, asking if the modification of the registration number was done. Almost, they answered. Second step, she needed a dock operator. The Tellarite would contact the authorities sooner rather than later, so she had to act quickly. She met an unaware and alone operator and convinced him to give her ship permission to depart. The man (the _young_ man, T'Pol noticed) surrendered to her appeal and her logic and, yes, her looks. He gave her the permission and completed the necessary actions. He smiled at her afterwards.

An ethical issue arose then. Did she kill him or not? The operator knew their false registration number. If they wanted a chance to flee, nobody could know it. But he was just an innocent _civilian_. As a spy, she had killed before and she knew it was part of her job, but she didn't like it. In fact, she was proficient in the _Suss Mahna_ to prevent it, to be able to subdue an adversary without killing him. But he knew the number…

He was smiling at her. She made a decision. It wasn't a battle, it wasn't a life or death situation and he wasn't an enemy, just a worker from a neutral planet with the misfortune of having encountered her. Besides, her primary mission had been fulfilled and as much as she wanted to return the Vulcans home, the truth was that it wasn't really vital. It was enough to leave him unconscious and lock him in the closet.

He kept smiling at her, a little self conscious then. She moved her hand to perform the Vulcan nerve pinch. Stel entered the room and shot him. T'Pol just stared at the corpse, trying to assimilate all the sudden feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. Stel had executed an innocent man. There was no time to argue, of course, as they had to run to their ship, beam out all the Tellarite crewmen who weren't aware of their identity (or even what in the world had happened) except the captain and get out of the dock. T'Pol contacted the Ferengi smugglers by radio, who didn't want to know anything about her, but they would be ready to "take her for a ride" if she met them on Acamar in ten days, "sweetie." T'Pol wondered what drove people to call her names related to simple carbohydrates.

For now, they were safe. Once they had left Risa's authorities behind, hid themselves, coaxed how the password logarithm operated out of the Tellarite captain, chosen cabins, taken off the wigs and makeup and rested a little, it was time to talk. More precisely, it was time for T'Pol to demand an explanation about Stel's disturbing behaviour. In the middle of the Bridge. Because she didn't trust him one bit and because Sopek needed to hear it. Stel managed to turn the tables and accused her of being unprofessional and _sentimental_, of letting somebody survive when she could compromise their mission. T'Pol couldn't believe it, he let a Tellarite escape, killed another two, killed an innocent civilian that he didn't know was a threat to the mission _at the time_ and _he_ had the nerve to accuse _her_. She wasn't going to kill him, no, but she would report him to the High Command — even if it served for nothing — the second they put a foot on Vulcan.

Which wasn't going to be soon, since T'Pol had to go to Acamar. Stel argued hard: their mission was to go back home, T'Pol had to understand that, any other mission she had could wait. But the truth was it couldn't. And the truth was that for the first time in her life T'Pol had to choose between her orders and her beliefs. She felt the IDIC's weight, hidden in the seams of her clothes. She came from a family that thought very strongly about Vulcan culture and values and she had always followed it. When you are surrounded by so many species, so many cultures, it is necessary to keep a residue of your heritage, to preserve a central core. T'Pol decided then that she would save Vulcan, as Soval wanted, even if it meant going against the High Command. Anything before people like Stel could do more damage.

She pulled rank and convinced Sopek, based on their comradeship, to take her to the rendezvous point. Sopek trusted her and the importance of her mission — which he knew nothing about— and ignored Stel's complaints. Sopek, like any member of the Intelligent Service, didn't think very highly of an ISS agent like Stel.

Over the following days their ship wandered a little, trying to maintain a low profile, and only when it came time for them to travel to Acamar did they enter the Passage. And in the most incredible freak of probabilities, they met _Enterprise_. T'Pol had been resting at the time and reached the Bridge as Sopek was already making a lame excuse. She attempted to shut him up with a hand on his mouth. But the damage was already done and the Humans threatened to board them.

And that was why agent Sa'awek always worked alone.

The Bridge crew fell into a conscious silence after the _Enterprise_ gave them two minutes to turn the video on.

"What should we do now?" Sopek asked.

T'Pol didn't reply, she was too busy trying to evaluate all the possibilities.

"Should we alert Stel?" Semok, at the Helm, asked.

"No. Let him rest," T'Pol answered quickly. Anything but that. "I think… We will do as the Humans ask, we will turn on the video channel."

"You are aware that we are not a bit similar to Tellarites."

T'Pol wondered if pulling off Sopek's head would have any effect on him.

"I know, Sopek. But obviously they are going to attack us, so I propose to initiate a communication with them to try to gain time."

"Does this course of action have any possibility of working?"

"More than doing nothing."

Sopek bowed his head in approval.

"Now sit down," T'Pol ordered him. "Turn the video on, but pass the sound to your chair and connect it only when you are going to talk. I will kneel down at your side, off-screen, and suggest to you what to say."

Perhaps others would have argued or acted displeased, but not Sopek. Sopek was eager to transfer his command to others.

When the screen came on it showed a three quarters figure of a male Human. Brown hair, small blue eyes under very thick eyebrows, a prominent nose like a keel, a thin descending line as a mouth and an expression of perpetual scowl. Except that this expression changed to mischievous glee when he saw them.

"Oh, look who we have here." The Human smiled. "You aren't Tellarites."

"That is obvious."

T'Pol drilled Sopek's face with her stare.

"You are Vulcans," the Human said. His voice had a not-so-hidden hatred in it.

"I am Commander Sopek."

"Captain Archer."

For a moment, there was an atmosphere of respectful acknowledgment between the two men.

"Prepare to be boarded," Archer declared.

"Agent Sa'awek?" Sopek asked under his breath, without moving his lips.

"Tell them the truth."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell them the truth, the purpose of our mission."

Sopek needed a couple of second to digest this "Our mission… Which is…?"

"Your mission is to reach Acamar and contact a ship there."

Sopek repeated the information to Archer, adding a "We request free passage."

The Human Captain arched a brow, bemused. "Thanks for the information, but what do we care?"

"Tell them that we do not mean any harm to them, to the Humans," T'Pol whispered.

"Don't we?" Sopek asked, surprised.

"Tell them that our mission has nothing to do with them."

Sopek threw T'Pol a wary glance, then told the Humans what he had heard. Not so surprisingly, Arched laughed out loud. "You expect us to just believe you and let you go?"

"It is the truth," Sopek said. T'Pol could see his distress.

"Yes, of course, and I'm one of Santa Claus' elves that makes toys for children."

"I don't understand why that piece of information is pertinent now," Sopek whispered.

T'Pol glared. "This is what Humans call 'sarcasm'."

"I don't care who you are," Archer said. "In fact, you'll have plenty of time to tell us what exactly your mission was when we arrest you."

"Insist," T'Pol ordered.

"Captain, I assure you this mission's purpose will have no repercussions to Earth's welfare. We do not desire to harm you."

"_Could they be on __a diplomatic mission?"_ asked a third voice from Archer's channel.

The Human captain frowned, he wasn't expecting that part to be heard. "Chadha, cut it off!" he hissed.

"We could say—" began Sopek.

T'Pol's answer was fast. "No, if we tell them that we are and they discover we lie, then no diplomatic mission or medical ship will be safe again. Vulcans don't make the same mistake twice."

Sopek's expression showed genuine sympathy. Everyone knew what had happened to the Vulcan peace convoy fifty years ago.

T'Pol sighed. "Tell them the truth."

"No, we are not a diplomatic mission," Sopek said out loud

Archer's brows rose. It was very easy to read Human emotions. He was astonished. "Well, at least you aren't scum with no qualms about lying." He smirked. "Anyway, prepare to be boarded."

"Tell them to escort us," T'Pol whispered.

"What?"

"Captain, I think the Vulcan is talking to somebody under his chair," a female crewman of the _Enterprise_ said. She had slanted eyes. With the uncommon proportion of incredible probabilities they suffered that day, T'Pol was sure the woman was Japanese. It fit the events of the last week to meet somebody from the only Asian country the Vulcan Army had devastated, because that way their chances of finding some kind of sympathy would be even lower.

"You could escort us," Sopek said before Archer could respond to his crewman's words.

"Escort you?" the Captain asked. He seemed as much amused as bewildered.

"Why are we suggesting this?" Sopek asked T'Pol.

"We need to gain time."

"You are willing to have our ships accompany yours to your destination," Archer said, to make sure.

"Yes. Once we finish the transactions that lead us there, you can arrest us."

T'Pol felt impressed by Sopek's bravery and his sacrifice. She felt slightly touched too.

Archer took some steps on the ship, then he turned toward the screen abruptly. "If we accept… can we board you?"

"No. You can accompany us, as long as your men don't get into our ship."

Archer laughed again. "No way." He glared at them. "Prepare. To. Be. Boarded."

"Close the channel," T'Pol whispered. "We will get nothing."

Sopek complied. He just remained on the chair, a little shocked. "I convey my apologies, agent Sa'awek."

"It is not your fault, Sopek. It is mine, I have gotten all of you into this situation."

Sopek sighed, a small sound, almost imperceptible. Then he looked at her. "Was this mission important?"

"Yes, it was," T'Pol said and rose, although she felt her legs weak. "You know what we must do."

Sopek nodded. "Semok, take us to the _Enterprise_. Full speed." He pressed the intercom button. "This is Commander Sopek to the crew. We are about to collide with the enemy ship. Our chances of escape are nonexistent, as well as our chances of survival. If the Humans beam into our ship before the collision… you know what you have to do."

The silence that followed that news was denser than a black hole. Sopek stood up, very rigid. "It's been an honour to serve with you, agent Sa'awek."

"Likewise, Sopek."

T'Pol touched her last molar, where the venom was placed, ready to let it out. She looked at the corner of her eyes other crewmen doing similar gestures, moving their mouths. Other crewmen took out their guns and aimed at their heads.

T'Pol closed her eyes. She thought about the garden in her parents house, about the sound of the decorative fountain, she remembered her father's touch and her mother reading "Falor's Journey" to her and her sister at night, the litany of her Second Foremother performing the _Tal-Shanar_, the brightness of her sister's eyes when she was appointed V'Lar's Personal Aide, and, at last, the breeze at the Temple of Amonak, the sun reflecting on the lake and the red, red sky. Because that was it, that was the end, and nothing could change it.

The loud beep coming from the communication console broke her concentration.

"Sir, Orion ships approaching."

On the other hand…


	7. Pirates!

**Author's note:** Sorry for the delay, but I really hate to write action. It took me more than I thought.

By the way, I've followed the Star Trek conventions about space fight, so expect to read about shakings and panels sparking. My rule is that everything that disturbs the warp field affects the ship.

As always, thanks to **Alelou**, who is a multitask editor.

* * *

"What?" Archer asked.

"Orions!" Hoshi repeated. She watched him. It always soothed her to see his reaction, how he straightened up and closed his eyes, how he breathed in and breathed out, how he opened his eyes again and his stare seemed calm and not entirely from this world, like the flight of an eagle, and how, at last, he snapped into Captain mode.

"Woodcomb, evasive maneuvers! Put us at the Vulcan's rear! Shran, torpedoes ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Chadha, hail them."

"No response." Chadha's console beeped. "Sir, _Horizon_'s calling."

"Put them through. Shran, polarize. Hoshi, zoom in on the Orions."

Hoshi didn't need to look at the screen, she could see the multiple signals on her scan and she knew perfectly well their meaning.

"That's a damn flotilla!" Archer exclaimed.

_"Pirates!"_ Travis shouted from the comm.

"Are you su—?"

_"Trust me. Orions searching for fresh meat."_

Meat? Meat?! Hoshi felt her stomach clench.

"Travis, can you give us cover fire?" Archer asked.

_"We'll try to contain them, but I can't promise anything."_

"Chadha, alert all the ships in the surrounding area."

Hoshi read her console and saw the Orions approaching at full speed, the Boomer ships taking positions in a kind of a defensive wall and… "Sir, the Vulcans have turned around."

"Shran, fire at them. Woodcomb, low-level flight over them."

The numbers in Hoshi's console turned red when Woodcomb's maneuver brought them too close to the other ship. The warp clash shook the _Enterprise_. In the long range scan the energy readings went up and down. Boomers were shooting. The Orions extended the formation. While the bulk of the flotilla charged at the Boomers, the ships in the extremes slipped in between the gaps separating the Human vessels.

"Here they come!" she said.

"Damn it! Woodcomb, try to dodge them. We have to keep our distance from their scans."

Hoshi swallowed, but was able to focus on her console. If the Orions scanned them, then they'd know their crew number and position and then…

_No, no, no, calm down! __Don't think about it. Don't think, just act._

_Enterprise_ passed between two Orion ships.

"Shran, torpedoes at eleven point seven," Archer warned.

Hoshi saw one of the enemy ship's shield percentage dropping. The readings of the Vulcan ship showed it just below them, following _Enterprise_. Did the insensitive Vulcans fear the Orions?

Her console rang. "Sir, Orions marking us for their scans."

"Woodcomb!" the Captain shouted, as if his surname was instruction enough.

_Enterprise_ made a ringlet and went deep down to slip away. The entire ship shook like a blender.

"_Cap'n, what the hell are you doing?"_ Trip demanded from the comm. _"The engines can't handle this!"_

"Keep them working."

"_But—"_

"Not now, Trip!"

_Enterprise_ made a wide turn to prevent being blocked. Hoshi's console beeped and signalled red just as the Vulcan ship grazed their hull. The collision knocked the Captain down to the floor and made the panels at Hoshi's back spark.

"What are they doing?" Archer asked, while he tried to stand up again.

"Hindering us and run away from the Orions," Shran answered. "Bloody bastards."

"Shoot—"

"I'm on it."

On her console's tactical screen, Hoshi saw three energy readings leave _Enterprise_ and hit the Vulcan ship. It slowed down and changed course… towards _Enterprise_? Why? Hoshi widened the image. Five Orion ships were approaching above them. "Sir, Orion ships closing overhead!"

"Woodcomb, hard to starboard!"

Hoshi's console went crazy with so many readings. "Sir, collision course!"

She never looked away from her console. If she was going to die it didn't matter if she saw the real thing or the mathematical equivalent.

And the mathematical equivalent seemed less scary.

In spite of their high speed, _Enterprise_ was able to change course enough to avoid crashing against the Vulcan ship, which was apparently engaged in the deep space version of "every man for himself."

The Orion ships took advantage of their distraction to approach. Close enough to allow a scan…

Suddenly, an energy source rose from the _Horizon_'s sign and hit one of the Orions ships. Its symbol disappeared from the screen.

"_Horizon _brought down one pirate ship," Shran informed them.

Hoshi pictured Travis as a very clean hero of the Ancient Greece.

"Good shot!" Archer cried out.

"_Captain!"_ Travis shouted. _"Be careful—"_ Static. _"—re you–"_ Static. _"—scanned us!"_ Long static.

"What's happening?" Archer asked.

"Orions jammed our communications," Chadha provided.

Hoshi had a bad feeling about it. She widened the sight range of the scan even more. _Oh, no!_

"We're surrounded!"

"Ninety degrees to starboard!"

"Sir, two ships at intercept course in three point two..."

"What?"

"We're going to collide!"

"Dammit! Torpedoes! Evasive maneuvers."

Hoshi felt herself displaced toward the left. And then the entire Bridge began to quiver as if they were on a wild colt. Multiple signals filled her scan. "Impact of debris."

"_Cap'n, you're killing my engines!"_ Trip yelled on the comm. _"The coils are going to melt."_

"Not now!"

Hoshi's console rang at full strength. "They're scanning us!"

She almost didn't finish the sentence. She felt as if a frozen hand had grabbed her by her throat, forcing her to breathe in short pants. And her heart roared inside her ears like a turbine. The rate of the scanning process was growing, a blue percentage going up and up, so fast that Hoshi couldn't follow it. Or perhaps it was because her sight was clouded. She couldn't breathe. Once the Orions scanned them, nothing could stop them from beaming them out. They would transport them without any compassion. They would disintegrate all their cells, floating with the dust of the universe, and then they would put them together again, but they wouldn't be pure anymore. No, they wouldn't be, because they would have joined to the rest of the filth, and who knew if a part of it wouldn't became corporeal inside them. That if their _entire_ body could be get back, if there wasn't any error, if they didn't lose a finger, or a hand, or an eye, or…

_I… I can't… I can't breathe… _

"Hoshi!" Archer shouted. But it sounded from very far away, as if it came from the end of a tunnel.

The percentage was still growing, but it was only a blurred stain in the middle of nothing. Her heart pounded inside her chest. She felt an odd tickling in her finger tips, even more strange, since her arms and legs seemed to have come unstuck from her body.

"_Hoshi."_ She clearly heard doctor Phlox's voice. Strong, even and soothing. _"Hoshi, focus."_

"I… I can't…" She didn't know where she found the energy to answer.

"_Hoshi. You are the Science Officer of the _Enterprise_. You have a responsibility. Focus."_

She hiccupped.

"_You know you can do it. C'mon… as I've taught you. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…"_

Hoshi followed his instructions. She could feel her entire body now. And her head didn't throb. "They're… They're scanning—"

"_Don't think about that. It doesn't matter. Detach yourself from the numbers, from their importance, from their meaning. They are just signs to identify sums of units. Neutral, inoffensive numbers."_

She swallowed and coughed. She breathed a little more.

"_Good, very good. Just a little more… Easy, easy… Are you all right? Are you operative?"_

Hoshi looked upward for the first time. Captain Archer was holding a communicator next to her ear. That's where Phlox's voice had come from. Archer's face was stern and a little anxious. Chadha threw her some quick glances. Shran and Woodcomb were too busy on their posts. At Hoshi's side, Ensign Novakovich was standing up, waiting to replace her.

"Y-Yes. I'm all right." She threw Novakovich a reassuring gaze. He nodded and stepped back. Then she talked directly to the Captain. "I can go on."

"_Fantastic."_

Archer took the speaker out. "Status?"

Hoshi pushed the controls. Her hands were still trembling a little. "Orion scan finished."

Archer strode toward his chair. "Woodcomb, keep us away from them, before—" A sudden lurch threw him to the ground again.

"They've trapped us in a tractor beam," Hoshi said.

"Shoot them!"

"I'm on it!" Shran retorted. "What kind of shields they have?"

Hoshi's console lit up like a damn Christmas tree. _Oh, for the— _"Beaming out!"

She gripped her station, but didn't close her eyes. Not this time. She had to be brave. Some little light dots that represented their crewmen began to disappear from the screen.

_Breathe in, breath__e out, breathe in…_

The process took only ten seconds. As violently as before, the Orions released them. The second lurch made Archer fall to the floor once more. He leapt up, enraged. Blood flew from his right brow. "Hoshi, status!"

"They've taken nine crewmen." She watched her exterior scan. "They're leaving at full speed."

There was absolute silence in the Bridge for about two seconds. Then the explosive outburst of Archer: "Hunt them down!"

"What about the Vulcans?" Shran asked.

They had completely forgotten them. Hoshi searched in the long range scan. "They've fled. But we still can catch them."

Archer hesitated. Woodcomb was waiting for instructions. Shran was piercing the Captain with his stare. Archer's voice wavered slightly when he asked: "Are they going to the Klingon Empire or the other way?"

"The other way," Hoshi answered.

Archer sighed. Then he clenched his jaw, determined. "OK, Chadha, warn all of our ships, I want those Vulcans to be neutralized. Woodcomb, set course in pursuit of the Orions. Maximum warp."

"Captain—!" Shran protested.

"No arguing. The Orions have our men."

Hoshi kept an eye on all the variables on her console. She wasn't afraid to catch up with them —which they would soon do, based on their relative speeds— but they could suddenly decide to fight back. And maybe they weren't the only Orions in the surrounding area.

Chadha's console beeped. "_Horizon_'s calling, sir."

"_Captain, slow down,"_ Travis said.

"I can't let them go."

"_Captain, our ships don't __match your warp speed. We can't keep up with you."_

"Then don't. Go get the Vulcans."

"_And leav__e you alone against a flotilla? Have you lost your mind?"_ A long effervescent sound, like somebody sighing_. "You must wait for back-up."_

"I'm sure we will receive Earthfleet reinforcements any time now."

"_But you don't __**know**__."_

"They have my men!"

"_They have my men too."_

"Sorry to interrupt," Hoshi said, "but Orion ships are approaching."

"How many?"

"Two."

The aforementioned ships passed near them catching them in cross fire.

"Shields to 90%," Hoshi said.

"Woodcomb, ignore them and keep chasing the other ships."

Hoshi was following the warp signal left by the Orions when… "Collision from port in three seconds!"

Woodcomb dodged one of the Orion ships. The other approached them from the other side as it fired torpedoes.

"What the?!" Archer shouted. "Are they willing to sacrifice their ships?"

"_Do you have any idea of how much a slave__ can bring in the market?"_ Travis asked.

"I have an idea, yes… Shran, fire at will!"

"I'm trying… Damn, their shields are strong…"

"Hoshi, our status."

"Shields at 84 % Damage negligible."

"The other Orions?"

"I'm losing their trace."

"Shran!"

"I'm on it!" He manipulated his console. After several seconds his face showed a fleeting glee. "Got it. They're using directional shields. Very sophisticated, but the mechanics are the same."

"Woodcomb, let's use the WHTT maneuver."

Hoshi rolled her eyes. WHTT: We Have To Talk. Code for "Move to one side and then change direction to attack from the other." One of _Enterprise_'s fortes was its maneuverability.

They needed not more than ten minutes to destroy the enemy ships.

But ten minutes were an eternity at the subatomic level. They lost the clear warp trace among the always changing particles of the universe.

"Hoshi, can you trace them?"

_Yes, of course, and why don't you ask me to__ sing and dance while I'm on it? _She didn't answer that. "I can trace a probable course."

"Do it."

"_Is everyone all right?__"_ Travis asked.

"Yes, no lasting damages."

"_Good, we're about to reach your position."_

"Sorry, Captain Mayweather, but we can't wait for you."

"_Why not? You've already lost them."_

"Sorry, Travis, but we are the only ones that can follow them. If we lose them now, we lose them forever. We are the only chance to pinpoint their location."

"Course calculated," Hoshi informed.

"Woodcomb, set course."

The Ensign complied. He operated the speed lever for a time, then frowned. He touched several buttons and frowned again. "Captain, we might have a problem."

"What is it?"

"I can't reach maximum warp. I roughly reach warp two."

"What?" The Captain pressed the comm.. "Bridge to Engineering."

"_Engineering here!"_ There was an awful background roar.

"What happens with the warp?"

"_Sorry, sir, but part of the __warp coil has failed." _

Hoshi had a bad feeling. Even with so much noise, she couldn't help but notice that wasn't Trip's voice.

"Then fix it, fast," the Captain said. His face took a light shade of perplexity. "Wait a moment… Kelby?"

"_Yes, sir."_

"Where's Trip?"

She knew what he was going to answer before he actually did.

"_I'm sorry, sir, Commander Tucker is one of the crewmen the Orions captured."_


	8. Close Encounters of the Third Kind

**Author's note:** It's subtle, but there is a mention of Vulcans not seeing as well as Humans in the dark. This theory isn't mine, of course, it's from the talented **Blackn'blue**.

* * *

The last thing Trip remembered were his engines giving all kind of troublesome readings. Because Jon didn't love them, that was why. Trip was trying to keep everything working and in one piece, with Rostov at one side and Taylor at the other, on a platform over his head. Somebody shouted at the back of the room and more yells and shrieks followed it. He looked up and saw Taylor de-materializing into a green beam.

And then, he felt as if he was disintegrating molecule by molecule, in an eerie reminiscence of a full body shudder, but chillier. Teleportation. It didn't matter whose technology was being used. The experience was always the same. There was a moment, after the sensation of losing all touch, when you didn't feel anything at all. It was like that brief gap, when you are not totally sleeping, just about to wake, but not entirely conscious either. It wasn't exactly the same, because you were aware of everything while you didn't perceive anything, not even yourself. Very, very bizarre.

That quick insubstantiality gave way to what Trip called "body vomit," or the unpleasant feeling that you were regurgitating your own being.

In those seconds Trip understood Hoshi's disgust with the transporter.

When he was able to feel a floor under him and to move his fingers, he took a fast look at his surrounding. He had barely noticed the old condition of the booth where he had landed, when somebody opened the door and pushed him outside. He had time to think "The transporter isn't open; each beam comes from an individual cabin," before something with the force of a pneumatic drill hit his back, making him fall to the ground.

All the air left his lungs.

Strong hands grabbed him by his uniform's back and raised him to his feet. Trip bumped into three green giants, who showed all kinds of kinky piercings and very big smiles. Orions. Trip had never had many encounters with that species. Overall, he didn't like them or their way of life much, and right then, with a bunch of them surrounding him with wicked intentions, he liked them even less.

The Orion behind him passed his hands under Trip's armpits and immobilized him. Trip couldn't touch the floor with his feet. The other two Orions began to touch him.

"What are—? Stop, stop it!" The Orions ignored him and kept frisking him. "This is outrag— Ahhhh! No, that's _not_ a weapon! I'd like to keep my capacity to become a father, thank you! Ouch, that hurts! You sonofa—"

One of the Orions elbowed him in the face. Trip almost felt his brain bouncing inside his skull.

_Easy. Easy, Trip. Try to gain control._

"My name is Charles Tucker III," he hissed. "Rank, Commander. Service number: 125-43-5798. I demand to be treated as a prisoner of war!"

The Orion behind him pushed him to the floor again. Another kicked his stomach. Solely to maintain his dignity, he leapt and rose. The Orions laughed. One of them — Smiley, Trip called him — held out his hand and grabbed Trip by his neck effortlessly. He raised Trip from the ground, just to prove he could. Trip punched his big, big arm and kicked the air, uselessly. Smiley smiled even more. At his side, Fatty pinched Trip's cheek like an affectionate uncle. Trip began to feel the lack of oxygen. His head throbbed. On the other side, the third Orion, Slim, was manipulating some kind of device. After a while, he reached Trip's ear and stuck the device in it.

Trip felt excruciating agony, as if somebody had immersed each and every one of his cells in hydrochloric acid.

He momentarily lost consciousness. Next he knew, he was being dragged along a corridor. In front of him other Orions carried some other Human crewmen. Trip recognized Taylor.

"Jane! Are you all right?" he shouted.

She seemed disoriented, with clouded eyes under her brown curls, but was able to pinpoint him at last. "Commander! What's going on? What's going to happen to us?"

"Don't worry. Everything will be all right." He didn't believe it himself. "Just… be calm."

Smiley kneed him in the stomach. Trip spit up some bile. He was going to talk with the person in charge; the service left a lot to be desired.

While Taylor was being locked up in a different cell several meters further on, Trip's captors opened a door in front of him. The interior was completely dark. Fatty threw him inside. Trip literally flew through the air. He landed with a painful thud, his head missing a projecting hard surface by only two centimetres.

Trip collected himself and charged forward. The Orions shut the door in front of his nose. Trip punched it out of frustration. He yelled. He kicked the door. He yelled again.

The cries echoed in the cell and were lost in the solitude.

Trip could hear his own breathing, fast and hoarse, and distantly, as if they were at the end of times, the wails of the other crewmen.

The door had a long horizontal sliding bar at the eyes' height that worked as a spyhole. It let in a thin crack of light. Trip moved his face as close to it as he could and tried to peek. The only thing he could see was a part of the long corridor, more or less as far as Taylor's cell door. Nothing more.

He turned around. His eyes were getting used to the darkness. He was in a roughly 2'5X3 cell, with a bunk attached to the right wall and another on the opposite side. At the back of the room a metallic kind of bolt. A faucet? And what looked like a sink under it, on the floor.

Trip walked toward it to take a look at it more closely. He heard noises then. They came from outside. It sounded like steps approaching. And voices. Trip looked through the spyhole.

It seemed that Orions were coming back, carrying more people.

Trip stepped back and got ready just in case they opened the door. There were some brisk noises just outside and the clang of the lock being unlocked. Trip charged as soon as the door slid open. He barged into Fatty. It was like hitting a wall. Fatty grabbed him by the collar of the uniform and threw him inside again. This time Trip hit his hip on the corner of the bunk and the pain made his eyes water. But that was nothing to the sudden spike of agony from the device. He collapsed on the floor, his eyes streaming with helpless tears.

He still noticed, however, that the Orions had another prisoner. A Vulcan. Short hair, pointed ears and quite petite. From what Trip could see he looked extremely young. A boy. It was just a boy. Were the Vulcans so ruthless — or desperate — that they were recruiting teens? Even if he seemed young, his stance was determined and even slightly aggressive. He was brave.

The Orions pushed the Vulcan inside and closed the door.

Trip and the stranger were left on their own in the dark cell. Trip was just too aching to even rise from the floor. His ears were ringing, his hip ached and tears still ran down his cheeks. The Vulcan boy remained an entire minute next to the door, probably to get used to the darkness. He looked through the crack of the spyhole, then turned his attention to the cell again. Trip, even in the middle of his agony, smiled: the Vulcan was doing exactly what he had done, except without the shouting and cursing. The boy went to the back wall, doing a more than necessary curve to avoid Trip, so he barged into the other bunk. A miscalculation? Could Vulcans miscalculate? Or perhaps they didn't see as well as Humans in the dark? Trip could see the obscure shape of the Vulcan as he bent down, feeling his way. He reached the back wall at last. The boy felt along it a little more and touched the bolt. He manipulated it. Trip heard the characteristic sound of a water stream. The Vulcan opened and closed the faucet several times, as if he wanted to find out if he could adjust the intensity. Apparently he couldn't.

Meanwhile, Trip's pain had subdued and he sat down on what he supposed was his bed.

The Vulcan opened and closed the faucet once more. The last drops disappeared in the sink with a gurgle. The Vulcan walked carefully toward his bulk and dropped into it. He sighed and cursed. He spoke Vulcan and Trip couldn't understand its meaning, but the tone was unmistakable. The boy's voice possessed that thin quality of teen voices that haven't completely changed yet. He was very young. Trip felt suddenly compassionate. Granted, he was a Vulcan, an enemy, but both of them were prisoners of a third species. Strangers in a strange place. So a mixture of his good nature and a universal comradeship made Trip say: "Everything will be all right, boy."

A tense silence. Then: "Boy?" the Vulcan said.

Trip was a little surprised, not just because the Vulcan understood his words, but because he sounded miffed. What? Had he offended him or something? Were Vulcans touchy?

"OK, I'm sure you consider yourself very mature and adult and probably you've passed a Vulcan mumbo-jumbo test of maturity consisting of walking naked in the desert while doing neperian logarithms or whatever is your stupid initiation rite. But let me tell you that anybody who hasn't changed his voice yet is a boy in my book."

Trip had expected a heated comeback, but he only received a calm reply: "I see that you are as perceptive as is to be expected in a Human."

"What does that mean?"

The Vulcan didn't answer.

What the hell? It was time for Trip to curse. Of all people, he had to be shut away with a Vulcan. It was horrible. They couldn't even _argue_ appropriately. OK, he didn't like arguing, but right then it would help him ease the stress.

He heard a soft slithering sound, like two pieces of fabric rubbing against each other. In the low light he could make out that the boy had crossed his legs Indian style on the bed.

Trip relaxed a little. He hadn't been aware that he was tense until then. It was amazing how the Vulcan seemed completely unflappable in that situation. Maybe it was because he didn't sense Trip was a threatening opponent or maybe it was a common trait in all the Vulcans in situations like that. For all he knew… Being an Engineer, he had never been on the front, so to speak, always confined to the four walls of Engineering while battles happened outside. Malcolm jokingly used to accuse him of being "sheltered." Well, not anymore.

Trip lay down on the bed with his hands behind his nape. He had always liked to meet new people and civilizations, but this wasn't his idea of a pleasant immersion into another culture. He would have been content with a postcard. He sighed. What would happen to him now? The database said that Orion's economy was greatly based on piracy, even if the Orion Government officially condemned it. Pirates traded anything, but especially slaves, because that was what earned them more income. So he had to expect to be sold as a slave. It was almost ironic. He was the Chief Engineer of the most modern Human spaceship, and he was going to end being something as archaic as a slave. Whose slave, anyway? Who would be his owner? Of what species? Would he —or she— live far, far away? At least he hoped he could work in what he liked. Maybe he could use new alien technology. But what would happen with the war? With his friends? And would he be able to see his family ever again? Dad, Mom, Sharon, Jamie, Lizzie…

He leapt from the bed. He noticed the Vulcan flinch.

"Don't worry. I just want to stretch my legs."

Trip walked up and down in the cell. He needed to move. He needed to do something. _Anything_. Although he knew it was useless, he operated the faucet. It was activated by a button, so the stream's intensity was indeed automatic. The water hit the sink forcefully and spattered his boots. Trip knelt down. The sink had a bigger than usual hole. He suspected it was used as a toilet too. He opened the faucet again. The water stream splashed once more. Trip had some very ugly glimpses of future scenes.

He tried to pull off or move the faucet. Useless.

Trip rubbed his face with both palms, desperate. He couldn't stand the waiting. Working for hours on a problem or a breakdown? Easy. Listening to one of the President's interminable speeches? No worries. Enduring torture? He was ready for it. But waiting? Just waiting for an unknown fate? Insufferable.

He had always been like that, since he was a hyperactive child. Long quiet waits got on his nerves. When he was seven he had taken apart his late grandfather's clock during his wake.

He dropped into the bunk again. There was no helping it. He grabbed the bed frame with both hands and tried to shake it, even if he knew it was totally pointless. Just to convince himself he was _trying_.

He could sense the Vulcan's stare.

Trip opened his mouth to tell him a couple of things when the lights turned on and a deafening horn began to sound without a break. He needed some time to get used to such brightness. The horn was really, really loud, almost intolerably so.

Trip looked at the Vulcan to see his reaction.

It was then that he realized he had made a stupid mistake.

The Vulcan's stance in front of the Orions had fooled him completely. And there was that little detail of all Vulcans having exactly the same haircut and uniform. And his sight had been clouded when they met for the first time, so it was understandable. You _could_ take the Vulcan for a male.

Even now, it would be easy. There was something very androgynous about the Vulcans. But, Trip noticed, not that much. There were boys with hazel big eyes and big lashes, but never just above so delicately sculpted cheeks. And although boys with fleshy lips existed in the universe, that combination of fleshy and silky was _very_ uncommon in a male. The long swan neck was possible in a teen, of course, even if it didn't have an Adam's apple. Maybe Vulcans didn't have one. But what was indisputable was that no Vulcan male, no matter how androgynous he was, could have a pair of _those_ on his chest. Not unless Vulcans changed sex during puberty.

So what Trip had in front of him was a Vulcan _female_.

And automatically Trip's mind remembered the Vulcan's commentary about his "insight."

She was a Vulcan female who knew _how to use irony_.

Oh. Holy. Shit!


	9. The Odd Couple

**Author's Note:** I'm very sorry for taking so long for this chapter. But I'm very busy right now, so I'm going to update very slowly. I'm really sorry for that.

If there is an Archer fan out there still reading this, just be patient. He's not a complete jerk, you know. But if he had issues with Vulcans in the RU, he has even more in this universe. I'm trying to create a full story of character development for him.

My thanks to **Alelou**, beta, editor _and_ teacher. Many thanks to **Honeybee** and **WarpGirl** too, for their ideas about whisky. I didn't exactly use them, but they led me to have a dream that night that created another plot point. So thanks!

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Jonathan Archer fidgeted some more. An unpleasant cold sweat had dampened his uniform and now the fabric stuck to his skin every time he leaned back against the chair.

It happened every time he talked with Erika.

Even a thousand light years away, her eyes radiated disappointment.

And Jon couldn't stand disappointing her.

"In short, you left your post to chase some Orion pirates," she said.

"I didn't _'leave my post.'_ Our mission is to patrol the sector and I never left it." Tired and angry and frustrated, he added: "Besides, I alerted the rest of the ships."

"To no good effect. You not only lost nine of your crewmen to the Orions, you also managed to lose the covert Vulcan ship you had encountered."

He suddenly felt very relieved that he was alone in the Ready Room. Erika had an annoying gift for making him feel like a child.

"What should I have done? Sit there and do nothing? Let the Orions kidnap my men without a fight?"

"You should—"

"OK, fine! I let my feelings cloud my judgment. Then you should demote me, Erika, because I would do it again."

He shouldn't have called her "Erika." Her sudden scowl told him that.

"You are one of our most prestigious captains, _Jon_. You must set an example."

"I should have been cold and professional, I know. But…" He rubbed his closed eyes with a hand, trying to rearrange his ideas. "But they were my guys. I can understand and accept losing them in battle, but at the hands of some pirates… I wasn't thinking as a captain, just as a human being." He stared at her and let his irritation get the best of him. "I don't know why you are so incensed; I thought that my absolute commitment to work was what drove you to divorce me."

Her eyes positively sparked. "Yes, that was what you _thought_."

Any semblance of professionalism was lost now. Years of unspoken words and old quarrels rose between them like a wall. He hated it. He hated the silences and the sentences layered with double meaning. He hated the forced formality and the wary stares. He hated all those little things that made the emotional gap between them wider.

He was so tired of it… "I know I ruined it," he confessed, both for the mission and for their failed relationship. "And it's entirely my fault, I can't blame anyone else. So if there are consequences, I'm ready to take them. Believe me, after losing Trip, you can't give me anything worse."

He was being highly melodramatic and he knew it. That trait of his always annoyed Trip. He would frown and shout, "Cut the crap!" He was the only one who dared to speak like that to Captain Archer. He missed it already. Erika, on the other hand, didn't seem a bit exasperated, only bothered and even worried. Something like compassion gleamed in her eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, so low that Jon felt it, more than hearing it. "He is my friend, too, and I know what you must be suffering." She offered him a sympathetic smile. "To be honest, I think that the fact that you left those Vulcans behind is a step forward. Not so long ago you'd never have done that ... and you'd have personally interrogated them. Leaving them and following your men… Well, I think it's a proof that you're overcoming your _obsession_."

She emphasized the last word and the sadness and resentment it carried expanded through the cabin like acid fumes. Erika bent toward the screen. Archer noticed the bags under her dark eyes.

"I'm glad you're acting like a Human being, Jon," she added.

She had good intentions, he knew it, but he couldn't help a fleeting feeling of cold apprehension. The people that knew him, the people who loved him, his friends (that is, Trip and Erika) were always telling him off for what they called "his obsession." "Chill out," they said. "Let it go." "Enjoy life" "Don't let hate drive you down." His obsession, his ability to defeat and kill Vulcans without mercy, had earned him his position and had made victory against their enemy possible. Wasn't it a good thing, then? Even if his obsession meant sacrificing the happiness in his life, wasn't it worth it? Wasn't the end of the war a praiseworthy objective?

"I'm sure your father would be proud of you," Erika said. "What was it what he used to say?"

"We can't try to save humanity without holding on to what makes us human."

"Exactly." A wistful glow spread through her face and she looked twenty years younger. She looked exactly like the insecure cadet that — because of circumstances beyond their control — had stayed beside Jon in the hospital when his father died. "He was a wise man."

"That he was." Archer felt a pang in his chest. "I miss him."

He always confessed how he really felt to her, even when he didn't want to. There was something in her dark eyes that drew the truth from him. And he was suddenly aware that it wasn't just his father he missed, it was her too. He missed having her next to him to listen to his desires and fears. He missed having her close to him when he awakened — soaked in sweat because a nightmare — to calm him down and to caress him and kiss him until dawn.

He missed their intimacy. The intimacy they could barely achieve in fleeting moments like those, when the two of them forgot their ranks and their situation. But, of course, those moments had never lasted long. Erika was a pro.

"Anyway," she said, with her usual cool front, "you've been warned. I don't want to call you for something like this again. You will follow orders and stay in the sector."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You will _not_ chase down any Orion pirate ship."

"No, ma'am."

"You will _not_ put a ship like _Enterprise _in danger."

"I can't actually promise that."

"Captain…"

"We're at war! I can't go and say 'oh, sorry, Vulcans, could you please shoot more carefully? You're going to scratch my ship.'"

Erika seemed ashamed of her words for about two seconds, until she recovered. "You know what I mean. None of your Lone Ranger stunts."

"Lone Ranger stunts?" he said, insulted.

"Jon…"

"OK, got it. I will be obedient and boring."

Erika cracked a genuine smile. "You can be a lot of things, but _never_ boring."

"Well, thank you."

Her smile got wider. Strangely enough, it didn't reach her eyes, which shone with a mixture of sadness and worry.

"I promise, I won't try to catch those Orion pirates on my own," he said.

"Oh? What was that for?" She blinked. "I trusted you the first time. You're not so reckless."

"I…" Archer felt very self-conscious and shy. "You seemed worried, so…"

Erika's expression suffered a transformation, from surprised to touched, with a brief melancholy in between. "It's not because of you…"

"That's a relief."

Her eyes didn't light up. Which worried him, because she was usually so perky and optimistic.

"No, seriously, Eri — Commodore Hernández, is something wrong? A sudden change in the war? For the worse?"

"No, nothing like that. We're doing great. In fact, the last reports predict breaking the First Vulcan Defence Line within a two-month period."

"So soon? That's great."

"I know." She _tried_ to sound cheery, but her voice took an excessively high pitch.

Jon's _Erika_ alarm (the one he'd developed after dating her for a while) rang loud and clear. "What's the matter, then?"

She looked sideways and exhaled as if she didn't want to tell him anything.

"Must I talk with Admiral Forrest?" he asked.

Cheap shot. She narrowed her eyes for a moment, then relaxed. Making Erika angry wasn't easy and Archer was grateful for that, because an infuriated Erika was one of the scariest things in the universe.

"Oh, all right. If I don't tell you you're going to whine endlessly."

"Whine?"

"Like a sad little puppy."

OK, he deserved it. Erika taunted him with a smug face: cocked eyebrow, subtle smile, chin pointed at him. Her eyes were ready for his comeback. Archer didn't give her that satisfaction, in part because he feared losing, in (greater) part because he knew it was her way of changing the subject. He waited with a steady stare for her to explain herself.

Erika's mocking air disappeared, revealing the truly troubled woman behind it.

"I'm stressed out because the elections," she confessed.

"Ah, yes, they are here, aren't they?" Archer tried to remember where he put his calendar. He couldn't rely on his memory for this kind of things. "I completely forgot."

"Lucky you." Erika grimaced, as if she suffered physical pain. "I'm constantly being bombarded with propaganda, visitors and requests from politicians."

"Well, that's what being a Commodore means. You are in a political position as much as a military one. You must not have asked for the promotion."

"I didn't _ask_ for it. Besides, your support should be demanded more than mine."

"Maybe, if I wasn't at the front, far from their claws."

She grunted. "Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful and honored for the chance that Earthfleet gave me, but if I hear just one more PR hack telling me 'the public support of the _Hero of Terra Nova_ would make all the difference for our candidate' I swear I'm going to scream."

Archer guffawed. "Hero? Don't they even grant you the privilege of being 'heroine'? How shameful."

"I know! Some of them didn't find out I was a woman before meeting me." She bit her lip to stifle her amusement. "You should have seen their faces."

He imagined Erika meeting the publicist with her brow arched and thrusting her chest forward to make the point clear, and he sniggered. "Seriously now, who do you think is going to win?"

"Your friend John Frederick Paxton, of all people."

Archer stiffened. "He's not my friend. Not anymore."

"I know." A regretful face. "I'm sorry."

Archer decided to let it go. "Is he going to win? Really? He's pretty radical, even by Terra Prime standards."

"Perhaps, but you know Terra Prime, it has more heads than the Hydra. Paxton has gotten the help of the anti-colony side."

"I don't know why that's so surprising. Isolationism has always been his niche."

"No, I meant the Earth centralist anti-autonomy side."

"One Earth, One Species, One Government?"

Erika nodded.

"Not that I'm surprised that Paxton could form an alliance with a snake, but I never suspected the centralist side could have real power."

"That's the bad thing about being in the trenches, you are unaware of what's happening at home." The same dark frown appeared on Erika's face again. "In front of a common enemy, Earth and the colonies joined forces and while the war was as its height nobody could worry about something else. Talking about the rights of Mars was a waste of time and nobody argued over our alliance with alien species like the Andorians."

"Why would _anybody_ argue about that?"

"Things are changing, Jon. Now that the end of the war seems close, the colonies are asking for more political independence and they have the support of the Boomers, who resent some of our intergalactic commerce treaties. They're very pissed off."

"They have sacrificed a lot in the war, maybe it's time to reward them." A part of him knew how simplistic he sounded.

Erika's smile was sharp as a razor blade. "You're always been so naïve… Colonies and Boomers control the commerce routes. We depend too much on them. If they claim independence they could ruin Earth. We're not really ready to give it to them." She sighed. "We are not going to give it to them. That's one of the reasons why Terra Prime has gotten so many followers lately. That and plain old xenophobia, of course."

"I don't get it. Paxton is an isolationist, he preaches against any relationship with any alien species. He doesn't even like the concept of colonies. And now you say that Earth can't afford the colonies to be independent. Isn't it a contradiction?"

"When you try to use logic, it is. I've never thought that fanatical people used rational thinking for anything. But the truth is that I see another message under all that bullshit. A message that bothers me."

Archer had a gut feeling. "We are the best?"

"Precisely. Paxton says 'Earth is ours, we should fight any alien to take control of our destiny.' The centralists say, 'Human colonies are Human, part of Earth, and we should fight anybody who says otherwise.' This "return to our roots," this patriotism, is nothing more than an excuse for good old expansionism."

"That's madness."

"Yes, it is. But aren't we in the middle of a bedlam right now?" She moved backward and for the first time Archer noticed that her hands were clenched into fists. "I'm… I'm scared. I'm afraid that the end of the Vulcan War will be the beginning of the Human Civil War."

He felt her words land like a punch in his stomach. Usually Erika was the optimistic one, the calm, level-headed, "don't panic" kind of woman. She brought out the best in people with that gift of hers. She wasn't the best strategist, nor the boldest of the military, but she led people well.

So Archer really didn't know what to do in front of an insecure and worried Erika. At last, he opted for what was probably too patronizing "Don't worry, everything will turn out all right."

It was his turn to cheer her up, even if it sounded naïve. She tilted her head and threw him a quizzical gaze. The irony of the situation made the sides of her mouth rise up almost to the point of a smile. "What an adviser Earthfleet has missed," she said, mocking. "Their loss, my gain, I guess."

"Just don't let this side of me get around there, I have a reputation to maintain."

This time Erika smiled openly. Archer basked in the almost glowing sweetness that emanated from her. Then he chided himself mentally. They weren't together, and these kind of thoughts always gave him pain in the end.

"Are we done?" he asked. "I don't want to look insensitive, but I have work to do."

Erika acquired the sage expression that he dreaded. The one that looked like she was reading his soul. "Yes, of course, I'm busy myself. I have two meetings with two different politicians that I'm _eager_ to attend."

"Well then, see you soon, Commodore Hernández."

"Likewise, Captain Archer."

He closed the channel abruptly.

Then he just remained there, sitting in silence.

It was official: he was idiot. Why did he have to act like an angst-ridden teen in front of one of the few people he ever tried to impress? What kind of mental connections began to work every time she smiled to reduce his IQ to the level of a bean plant?

He wished Trip was there. Trip always knew what to do to raise his mood. Usually some kind of scolding was included too, but the point was that only Trip could get away with that.

And Trip wasn't there.

Archer extended his hand to the shelves and took a framed picture out from behind the books of Trip and himself in their "youth" (or "wild years" as they liked to call them, to make them sound more interesting than they had actually been). Archer had been teaching as an instructor in the Academy at that time and he had been the only one to see the potential in the new Engineering recruit. Trip had been anarchic, not very disciplined and he had considered traditional research methods boring and ineffective (still did). Being a genius helped, of course, since Trip could make things work that the rest couldn't.

The door's chime broke his into his memories. "Come in."

To his surprise, Captain Mayweather stepped up in the threshold, with his perpetual frown and his perpetual grey uniform. The silver stars of his rank sparkled like a constellation on his chest. What did he polish them with?

"Is something wrong?" Archer asked immediately. A visit _in person_ wasn't very common.

Travis's eyes widened and his brows went up. It made his face softer and Archer remembered how young he really was.

"Oh, nothing like that. Sorry for frightening you." Travis raised a hand in an apologetic gesture. "I just wanted to gather in some updates, and since everything is so calm…"

"All right…" Archer noticed he was still holding the framed picture and he left it face down on the desk. Then he gestured toward the couch. "Please take a seat."

Malcolm would have refused, Trip would have slumped unceremoniously. Travis took his usual middle ground and sat down politely with his back straight and his hands on his slacks. Archer wondered if the younger captain ever stopped the good soldier act.

"Any news about the Vulcan covert ship?" Travis asked.

"None since they disappeared into Romulan space."

Travis nodded with a somewhat puzzled air. "I don't understand why they went that way."

"They wanted to escape and there was no other way out. Being captured by us or the Romulans, what's the difference?"

"Oh, believe me, if the stories about them are true, _a lot_."

"But that's the point isn't it? They're feared because they're surrounded by this halo of… _mystery_. We know nothing about them except that they're the best source for ghost stories."

Travis smiled at the joke. He didn't laugh, though. "The EICC has lost some ships at their hands, so we take them seriously."

"I didn't say we shouldn't, but they're a complete enigma. We don't even know what they look like." Archer almost pouted. "Frankly, I think it's annoying. And they're our neighbours right now. Perhaps we should try harder to start diplomatic relations with them." Archer shrugged. He wasn't the diplomatic type, but sometimes his curiosity got the better of him.

"Maybe. On the other hand, Vulcans, Andorians… even Klingons fear them. I'm perfectly fine if we don't ever invite them to dinner."

Archer stretched out his right leg and stared at the tip of his boot pensively. "So you don't hold out much hope that we'll find the runaway Vulcans alive."

"I'd say there's no chance."

Archer blinked. That last statement didn't compute. "If you are so sure, why did you come here to ask for news?"

Travis's face betrayed genuine and complete alarm. He stammered a little, too, letting out some incoherent sounds. Archer found it quite amusing.

"I needed to know that everything was OK around here," Travis finally managed to answer. He seemed partly embarrassed and partly remorseful. "You know, we are allies, we fight side by side. And this situation with the Orions has been bizarre and frustrating. I wanted to know if there has been a lasting emotional impact on your crew." He paused, as if he was suddenly aware of how what he said sounded. "I didn't want to imply that you're a bunch of sissies who would crumble over losing some crewmen."

"I'm afraid you've mistaken me for Malcolm Reed. I don't feel insulted if somebody thinks I have feelings."

Travis needed some time for these words to sink in. "So no heart-to-heart talks with Major Reed."

"I wouldn't recommend it, no."

Travis cracked a lopsided smile that quickly turned into his usual scowl. Something was worrying him. "Is your crew fine, then?"

"Quite. Yours?"

"Most of our crew has had previous experiences with Orions, so we're less shocked than what you could expect." He cleared a speck of dust from his trousers. "I hope none of your men feels guilty for what happened."

It was a strange turn in the conversation. "Uh, no, not at all."

"I don't think we could do more than we did. Don't you agree?"

Archer nodded. He had no idea what Travis was trying to get at.

"If somebody made a mistake, however, I'm sure you would be magnanimous."

Archer didn't move. He was waiting for what Travis _really_ wanted to say.

"I mean… I've heard about what happened with Lieutenant Sato…"

Aha! So _that_ was it. Archer stifled a laugh. He should have expected something like this from Travis. "How did you find out?" he asked.

"Ensign Chadha made a passing comment when she reported to me."

Archer wanted to softly sing, "liar, liar, pants on fire." He was sure that Travis had asked about Hoshi, Chadha had hesitated, and then Travis had gone all "third grade" on her, until the poor woman had surrendered. Of course, "third grade" in Travis' standards was like a slightly annoyed Care Bear, but his charm made up for his lack of aggressiveness.

"Is she going to have troubles with Earthfleet?" Travis asked. His worry was so sincere that it was almost heartbreaking.

"She had an anxiety attack in the middle of a fight. Even with all her recommendations she could lose her post." Travis gulped and Archer decided to stop toying with his emotions. "If I told Earthfleet, which I won't."

"You… won't? Why?"

"Look, Hoshi is _weird_. I'm not even going to try to deny it. She's full of phobias, she's obsessive-compulsive and she thinks that the chain of command is something that happens to other people. She wasn't born to be in the military. And I've had my arguments with her. In fact, I wanted to strangle her for the first two months she was assigned here. I positively believed she was a new weapon of demoralization created by the Vulcans. _But_ she's the best Science Officer I've ever seen. She's a genius, and in battle… I have no complaints with her behaviour in combat; her mastery of the scanners has been decisive more than once. It's just that… if you mention the transporter, she freaks out. Sometimes too much." Archer grimaced; "too much" was putting it lightly. "Anyway, I'm used to her, she's a vital part of our crew. I don't have the need or the desire to get used to a stranger at this stage."

Travis broke into a big grin. He glowed with relief. "Good. It would have been a pity to lose a fine officer like her." He coughed, perhaps to hide his excitement. "On the other hand, I had plans to take advantage of it if she was discharged. I mean, she _is_ a brilliant Science Officer, and I could use her on our ship."

_I bet you could_, Archer thought, but he didn't say it out loud. Feelings were a very personal matter and mocking them was extremely rude. Besides, Archer found it _cute_. Especially how Travis tried to conceal how he felt. Not that it worked. People who didn't have much interaction with Travis (like 98% of the crew of _Enterprise_) weren't aware of it, but even somebody like Archer — sometimes so dense that Erika had had to stand up on a chair and shout "I like you" for him to realize it— had noticed Travis's affections. It was sad too, because it was hopeless. A relationship with Hoshi was about as possible as Admiral Black and Archer singing together in a karaoke bar. Archer suspected that Travis himself _knew_ it was hopeless.

He sighed. There they were, two capable captains with lousy love lives. He felt a profound sympathy and he did what any man in his situation would do. He bent down next to his desk, pushed what looked just like a panel but revealed itself to be a door, and from the small compartment took out two glasses and a bottle with a golden liquid. Travis stared at him, flabbergasted.

Archer filled each glass with a finger of the beverage and passed one to the other man.

Travis looked at his drink almost cross-eyed. "This is…"

"Genuine single malt Scotch whisky."

"How?"

"A gift from General Reed." Archer wetted his lips with the whisky and relished the distinctive taste. "I think he did it to embarrass his son, but I can't complain."

"His son? Wait a minute, Major Reed is the son of _General_ Reed?"

"Yes."

"General Reed as in 'The man who kicked the Vulcans out of Vega' General Reed?"

"That one."

"Wow." Travis took a sip, choked and then coughed for an entire minute. Not everyone appreciated the strong taste. "I can't believe it."

"Yes, I know. By the way, I wouldn't recommend talking to Malcolm about him, either. They have their… issues."

"No! I can't believe you have contraband onboard."

"I don't call it contraband. It's a gift."

"A very rare and _expensive_ gift. You groundboundeds are incredible," Travis murmured, using the insulting name Boomers have for Earthlings. "Do you know how many goods you could trade for this?"

"I suppose that a member of the Earth Interstellar _Commerce_ Consortium knows very well."

Travis took the retort with sportsmanship. "Don't confuse terms, Captain. We're businessmen, not pirates."

The last word fell unto the cabin like a bomb. Travis twirled the whisky, more uncomfortable than Archer had seen him ever. "I'm sorry."

"None taken," Archer assured him.

"I didn't want to stir bad memories." Travis took a quick look at the framed picture still hidden face down on the desk. "I know Trip is a good friend of yours."

Archer didn't deny it. What for? Besides, it was disrespectful to Trip. So he chose to say nothing.

Travis nodded, acknowledging his tacit yes, then he stared at his beverage for a long time and, at last, he put the glass on the arm of the couch carefully. He interlaced his hands between his knees and looked down at them. "Maybe… and I'm talking in a hypothetical way," he began in a soft voice. "But maybe we could rescue Commander Tucker and the other hostages."

Archer was about to answer "I promised Erika I wouldn't leave the sector." He stopped in time to prevent himself from looking completely whipped. "What do you mean?" he asked instead.

Travis clenched his fingers together. "It isn't something Earthfleet would approve of."

Archer furrowed his brows. After his conversation with Erika any mention that Earthfleet and the EICC were two different organizations — together only for a temporal common goal — bothered him. "Again, what are you talking about?"

Travis clenched and unclenched his jaw, producing an unpleasant sound, like a snap. "I have a few contacts among the Orions."

"In the Government?" Archer smiled acidly. "Because all what we could take from them was their apologies. The worst part is that we know they are somehow involved but we can't do anything while we're at war with the Vulcans."

"No, my sources are a little less… official. In any case, I could contact them and try to find out if a satisfactory outcome for both sides is possible."

Archer saw through his words. "Earthfleet doesn't negotiate with pirates."

"I'm very aware of that. I'm aware, also, that this particular policy prevents Earthfleet from having any effective way to rescue their men from the Orions."

Archer leaned back on his chair. "All right. And, hypothetically speaking, because I suppose we're still in a theoretical stage…"

"Of course."

"What would you require?"

"First and foremost, valuable resources." Travis threw a significant gaze to the whisky bottle. "Or extravagant gifts, if it comes to it."

Archer suppressed a childish protest. "Very well, we could make sacrifices. What else?"

"I have my contacts, it's true, but sometimes they require me to get in touch with people who aren't willing to speak a language I know."

Archer watched his drink for the longest time. "Did you know that _Enterprise_ possesses not only a good bunch of xenolinguists but one of the best translators among the human ships?"

"Amazing. It would be a waste not to use a resource like that."

"Indeed. And of course what my crewmen do in their free time isn't of my concern."

"It seems fair."

"_If_ it doesn't affect the security of the ship or Earth's welfare. Because that would force me to take charge of the situation and I'm a loyal member of Earthfleet. Understood?"

"Crystal clear, Captain."

"Good." He raised his glass for a toast. "To our comrades, who are now prisoners. But we expect they'll be free soon."

"To our comrades." Travis took a careful sip. He coughed again. "Anyway, I want to warn you that it will take some time."

"I didn't expect a happy ending tomorrow morning, Captain Mayweather."

Travis face waved between irony and solemnity. "I hope they last long enough."

"Don't worry, they're tough." Arched flashed a smile. "Besides, Trip is among them. And you know Trip, he could charm a Vulcan."


	10. Musings of the Spider Woman

**Author's note:** Late better than never, guys, late better than never. I know I'm a little slow with the updates, but at least I'm making them, so it's not _so_ bad.

Yeah, I know the reference of the title is obscure. Deal with it.

Thanks to **Alelou**, as always. And thanks to everybody that has left a review. Your encouragement is greatly appreciated.

* * *

T'Pol was — in the absence of a better word and even if it was genetically impossible — pissed off.

What were the odds of fleeing from Risa, compromising their mission with an insane Vulcan comrade, being intercepted by _Enterprise_ and then being captured by Orion pirates? She would need a computer to calculate the probabilities. A very sophisticated one.

Even so, her captivity at Orion's hands wasn't the worst of the possibilities. Turning into a war prisoner under the Human yoke would be a thousand times worse. At least Orions could be persuaded or bought. And even if these ones had "professional ethics" (or the Orion variant), she was almost certain she could manipulate her purchaser. Without carrying out any of the contractual term, of course. She was _very_ aware of why she — the only Vulcan woman among the crew — had been abducted.

T'Pol inhaled and exhaled to calm down. She had tried to talk to the Orions as soon as she had put a foot on the ship, but the jailers hadn't given her a chance, busy as they were keeping her and her kidnapped comrades in check. It had been a disappointment, even if she had anticipated it, because it meant that she had to share a cell. They had been around Humans when she had been captured, so using Orion logic, she had been imprisoned with a Human male. T'Pol hadn't even flinched when she had realized her cellmate was a Human; instead, she had flinched when she had smelled the strong stench of disinfectant in the cubicle. Then the Orions had pushed her inside and had closed the door. She hadn't lost time with the cellmate — except to detect that he smelled of sweat, soldiering and engine lubricant — and she had analysed her place of imprisonment. When she had confirmed that there weren't any exits, she simply sat down and tried to meditate.

Which had been difficult with a hyperactive Human male in the room. He seemed ready to tear his bed in two. The positive part of this was that she had been able to assess his threat level. T'Pol couldn't see him, but the sound told her that he was young, tall and strong, but she could subdue him. In the not-so-positive side, he had mistaken her for a male. So he was young, tall, strong and _dumb_.

Perfect.

She wanted to take a good look of him as soon as the lights turned on, but the roaring horn that sounded at the same time made her shut her eyes tight and clench her teeth. To Vulcan ears the sound was just insufferable. It was almost as if somebody was piercing her brain from her ears to her nape. Once she got used to the noise and could open her eyes, she fixed them on him. As she had expected, the Human had a strong built, with broad shoulders. He had dark blond hair (short and combed backward, so different than Vulcans) and blue eyes that were staring at her with what seemed puzzlement. In fact, his entire face showed clear bewilderment.

Apparently the Human had discovered that his cellmate didn't have external genitalia. The surprise factor put her in an advantageous position and she watched him with even more attention. He didn't seem threatening at all. On the contrary, he reminded her of Ru'lumu, her old sehlat. There was something comforting and protective about him. T'Pol quickly placed that consideration in the deepest of her mind. She was a spy and the Human in front of her could be an asset. Besides, impressions could deceive.

She focused on more important things. He wore a coverall with red stripes. Red could mean Tactical Unit, Maintenance or Engineering. Tactical officers tended to dress in a different uniform, not a coverall. Maintenance crews did some dirty jobs, but his attire had some burns on the left sleeve and a couple of grease stains on the front, and his hands were covered with what looked and smelled like engine lubricant. Also, Maintenance didn't have anyone with such an exalted rank. Three pips, that meant Commander. So the only option was Engineering. T'Pol did a mental pause and then searched for his uniform's patch, just to make sure. There it was: _Enterprise_.

There was only one Commander in Engineering on _Enterprise_. Commander Charles Tucker III. The only Human who had been able to fuse Human and Andorian technology. Technically, the creator of the NX model.

There was a direct order to all Vulcan operatives from Director General V'Lar herself to capture this man. Alive, if possible. And there he was, before her eyes. The most valuable Human engineer alive was sitting down in front of her… and bringing his hand closer to the device in his ear. Which caused it to give him an electric shock.

Maybe she had made a mistake.

The Commander let out several groans and swears. After which he raised his hand and approached it to the device again. As was logical, he received another shock. He repeated the procedure one more time.

T'Pol was astonished. This obviously couldn't be Commander Tucker. Perhaps _Enterprise_ had promoted another officer in Engineering she didn't know about. Or perhaps this man had borrowed one of the Commander's coveralls. Or maybe the reports about Commander Tucker's intelligence were incorrect.

Another shock and another string of swears. He had tears in his blue eyes. His body was bent as a consequence of the pain. He breathed in and out, as if he were a Vulcan child practising for meditation, and raised his hand. He moved it towards his ear _again_. Was he completely—?

No, wait. The first time he had had his entire hand extended. And each new time he had used fewer fingers. This time he had only the index extended. And the speed he used to touch the device had changed too. He was going _very_ slowly now. T'Pol got it: he was determining what was the device's range. At a centimetre, he suffered a shock. He howled and rocked forward and backward while he demonstrated colourful new words that enriched T'Pol's knowledge of Human language.

The Commander yelled and proceeded to punch the wall behind him, an action that T'Pol considered highly irrational. But he was Human, wasn't he? They were like that. In a hasty movement he took the coverlet to wrap it around his hand. One more time, he reached for the device.

"It has a proximity detector," T'Pol decided to say out loud, before the Commander caused himself to have an aneurysm. "It will shock you anytime that something gets closer than a centimetre from it."

He stopped in the most bizarre of the postures, with his head tilted, his elbow bent at his ear's level, the coverlet end hanging to his mouth and his torso drawing a reverse "c."

"But—" The bedspread got into his mouth and he coughed it up. He lowered his arm afterwards. "But surely it must have some kind of safety catch, because if it reacts before anything, then if you turn your head on the mattress…"

"You will suffer an excruciating awakening."

"Oh." He looked at his lap and after some seconds of immobility, he began to unwrap his hand. "They don't leave you a moment of respite, I guess."

"No. They know what they are doing and they are very good at it."

As if on cue, the loud horn sounded again. No, not a moment of respite. Orions used any tactic to break their prisoners' spirit. They were paid only for slave _bodies_, after all.

"How do you know so much about these things?" he asked over the racket. His wariness was evident.

"How do you know _so little_ about them?" Rejoinder was part of her training; nothing better than a good attack.

He scowled, offended. Reading Human emotions was so easy…

"Why would I need to? I'm just a—" He shut up before saying anything compromising. He clenched his teeth. T'Pol wasn't sure if it was out of irritation or consequence of the loud noise. Perhaps both. "Knowing Orion equipment isn't part of my job."

"You serve on a space ship; it is wise and convenient to have knowledge about the species that you might encounter." T'Pol could sense that unbearable horn getting into her nerves. "What do Humans teach to their soldiers?"

"They teach us how to kill Vu—!" He cut his own sentence with a guttural sound and a weird twitch of his mouth.

T'Pol felt tempted to counterattack. The noise, the lack of rest, the disastrous mission, _the war_… Everything had undermined her so-difficult-to-achieve Vulcan self-control. Her muscles almost screeched when she pulled herself together and decided to let it go. She wouldn't lose it over an impertinent Human.

As suddenly as it had come, the horn stopped. A sticky silence fell. T'Pol could hear the Commander's arrhythmic breathing and the low creaking of one of his nails scratching the metallic bed frame. He raised his gaze a couple of times, but lowered it before making eye contact.

T'Pol took it as a sign that their little interchange of words had concluded. That's why when several minutes later, after she had attained the prelude state to meditation, she was surprised when she heard his voice: "That was uncalled for."

T'Pol opened her eyes and stared at him.

"What I shouted," he explained.

Technically speaking, even _talking to her_ was uncalled for. T'Pol scrutinized him with professional attention. His stance was inoffensive, with his legs extended, his ankles crossed and his shoulders slumped like a careless child. His eyes were fixed in hers now and the blue hue in them seemed to glow. With intelligence, T'Pol noticed, not malice.

She pondered what path to take. If he was Commander Tucker — and every clue led to that conclusion — she needed to gain his trust at least momentarily. And even if he wasn't, it would be best for her to get on well with her cellmate for future contingencies.

"There is no offense where none is taken," she said. Surak's teaching sounded so strange in that place.

He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. T'Pol remembered that her sehlat used to do the same. If they were anything alike, it meant puzzlement and curiosity.

"That doesn't sound very Vulcan."

He was making it difficult to connect with him.

"It is, however, a fundamental principle of our philosophy."

"There is no offense where none is taken," he repeated. His tone was dubious.

"Yes."

He snorted. "Are you kidding me?"

"I. Beg. Your. Pardon?" She was _not_ going to lose her calm and break his shinbone in three pieces.

"Well…" He backed down suddenly, as if he saw something in her expression. "You Vulcans aren't famous for letting affronts go, precisely," he said, offering a tentative smile.

T'Pol exhaled a long breath. It would be so easy to enumerate each and every occasion when Humans had retaliated violently: the revolt on Vega, the massacre of _Esperanza_, the mass executions after the first prisoner exchange in 2079… She almost didn't need to think, the list appeared in front of her automatically. And it was that which prevented her from answering. She could use her brain to contemplate her own words and realize that her silence was the best example of Surak's teachings.

"I didn't offend you, I hope?" he asked, his expression perhaps a little too mischievous.

"If you are trying to provoke me, allow me to tell you that you are not achieving it." T'Pol faced his mocking smile with a disdainful expression of her own. "Also, let me tell you that if you did manage to enrage me, it would be highly unwise. I have three times your strength."

His face wavered between incredulity and offence. "I'm a trained soldier."

"As am I."

He took a look of her costume. First rule of a spy: if you are on a covert ship, always wear a military uniform; it is necessary if you want to be treated as a prisoner of war. And it wasn't a complete lie, since she was officially a soldier.

"Lieutenant, isn't it?" he said while he draw an imaginary diagonal line over his chest. "Your rank."

T'Pol nodded. The two thin diagonal strips in the closure of her jacket were obvious for any Vulcan, but not so much for a Human. "And you must be a Commander."

He touched his uniform's pips. "Yeah…" He cracked a fleeting smile. "My rank exceeds yours."

T'Pol suspected that he blurted such inappropriate things because he was anxious. Humans didn't have Vulcans' willpower, after all. In T'Pol's case, her discipline was excellent even for the standards of her species, which allowed her to fall silent, although she wanted to investigate further on the Human's identity to clear up her conjectures.

She would have her chance eventually.

"You are part of… the Science team?"

Or now. "Yes. You are a member of Engineering." He nodded and she felt invigorated at the confirmation of her deductions. She let her guard down a little to ask: "How did you know? About my department."

"Oh… You know…" he stumbled, caressing the collar of his coverall.

T'Pol was impressed; not many Humans could recognize the copper insignia on the collar of her uniform. This man had more depth than she had supposed in the first place.

"How did _you_ know about mine?" he asked. His tone was apparently friendly, but there was still some guardedness there.

"Red stripes. Coverall. Burns. Grease stains."

"Wow, nice eyesight, Sherlock."

Sherlock. Probably a reference to Sherlock Holmes, a fictional character in the novels by British author Conan Doyle. A detective, known for his deduction skills.

She didn't say any of this, of course, as she was playing the part of a common Vulcan soldier.

"Sherlock Holmes is a famous detective," he provided.

"Do you know him?" T'Pol felt a sudden embarrassment for having to look ignorant.

He smiled. It was very easy to provoke that reaction in him. It was… intriguing.

"Oh, no, he doesn't, he doesn't exist. It's fictional, you know? A main character in some mystery books."

"Is it a kind of narration for educational purposes?"

"Well… No, it's mostly for fun. It's…" He paused and made a curious gesture with his hands, as if he were shaking an invisible box. "You know what? Maybe it has some educational values. There is always a mystery, a murder or a robbery or something like that, and you need to use your brains to find the culprit before Holmes does." He looked at her with very bright eyes. "That's why he's famous, because he has these uncanny deduction skills."

T'Pol decided to push the boundaries a little. "Are those skills really noteworthy or he is just clever enough to differentiate between males and females?"

"Ha, ha, very funny."

Was she? No, it was sarcasm.

"It was _dark_," he went on. "And my sight was blurred because I had just gotten shocked. You can't expect me to make out the gender of a shadow."

"I don't expect anything. I would, however, advise not to _assume_ the next time."

His face showed a myriad of different emotions in very few seconds and T'Pol needed all her training to distinguish most of them. Such a changing canvas, the Human face.

In the end, after a dark scowl, he broke into a big smile. He even laughed. A short sound, stimulating, almost contagious.

"This is absurd, don't you think?" He giggled again. "A Human and a Vulcan shut up in a cell. It's the typical thing that would happen in a comedy."

"A theatrical play." She didn't know why she was drawn to make conversation. Perhaps his laughter had some unknown properties.

"Actually, I was talking about movies. Do you know what movies are?"

"Yes,a form of entertainment that enacts a story through a series of still photographs on film, projected in rapid succession onto a screen, giving the illusion of continuous movement."

He laughed so hard this time that he bent forward. T'Pol had no idea of what was so amusing.

"Sorry," he said while he wiped away some tears. Strangely, he was actually beaming. Why the tears? Humans were so alien. "It's just that… It sounded so _academic_."

"You asked if I knew what movies are and I gave you a _definition_." T'Pol didn't want to look displeased, but she suspected she did.

"And a very good one, yes." He sniggered before continuing. "But this is the kind of funny misunderstandings that you get to see in a comedy. It's almost cliché. Like… I don't know… As if we were characters in something called _The Cell around the Corner_ or _Some Vulcans Like It Hot_."

T'Pol ignored the unfamiliar references. "I wouldn't describe our situation as humorous."

He squirmed. "No, of course not. But..." He extended his index finger and pointed it at the ceiling, as T'Pol had seen Humans do when they wanted to make a point, "That's the merit of comedy, being able to portray as funny something that's not."

T'Pol didn't feel impressed by that supposed "merit." There was something in the playful nature of Humans that unnerved her. They were able to kill mercilessly and then compose an inane song about it and sing it while getting drunk, or even worse, while they were executing somebody.

That she knew.

The injury on her back ached, almost like a reflection of her own discomfort. She didn't have time or energy to let her mind wander in futile matters. She needed to sharpen her senses and keep as much of her strength as possible to take advantage of any chance to escape that future might bring. And she was sure it would; she only needed to wait patiently for any hint, any gap, any tiny mistake to use in her benefit.

"Not every dramatic situation like this leads to a comedy, that's true," said the Commander.

T'Pol almost gaped at him. Why was he still talking?

"There are dramas. Prison movies are a genre."

"Really?" She expected her scorn was evident.

"Yep."

Apparently she had expected too much.

"_Papillon_ or _Midnight Express_ are good examples," he went on, apparently oblivious. "And there are thousands of movies about war prisoners, too. Like _The Great Escape_ or _The Bridge on the River Kwai_. Or _Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence_ too." He grimaced and shrugged and then looked at her as if he sought her sympathy. "I know they're old movies, but I'm an old movie buff."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, phlegmatic and distant. It was one thing to try to create some kind of trust and quite another to have to listen to all this babble. She wasn't forcing him to listen to the exhaustive list of historical doctrines about Surak, was she?

"Any movie about a Human and a Vulcan as prisoners?" she asked, her tone tight.

"Both of them as prisoners of a third party?"

"Yes."

"No."

"What an interesting task you have ahead of you, then. You can create your own movie. _In silence_."

He shot her an astonished gaze, mixed with something that T'Pol couldn't identify. It looked like incredulity, but subtler.

Satisfied with the outcome of her reply, she closed her eyes to meditate.

"Although there are movies that you can relate to our situation," he said.

T'Pol opened her eyes and glared.

"There is this one… I can't remember the name..." He snapped his fingers several times. "Anyway, it was about two guys in a cell who were forced to coexist even though they had nothing in common."

He threw her the sweetest of the smiles. But T'Pol knew better. She could see right away the nasty satisfaction behind it. He was delighted to bother her.

"They were two men, though, and it's _obvious_ by now that you aren't." He smirked and squinted, as if he were mulling it over. "And of course, neither of us is gay." He made a pause and threw her a contemplative stare. "I think."

T'Pol didn't answer. "Gay" was vernacular for homosexual. She knew how easily Humans changed topics. And sex was something she had absolutely no interest in talking about. Especially with a Human. Especially with _that_ Human.

"But it's very different, because they end…" He fell silent and touched the tips of his index fingers together several times. "Which is nothing like us at all."

Perhaps T'Pol could have agreed if she had known what he was talking about. As it was, the only thing she could do was close her eyes and try to meditate, even if she was aware that he wasn't going to shut up.

"Now, if this were _The Shawshank Redemption_…"

T'Pol focused on her breathing. She would not allow the anger to conquer her. She would dominate her feelings. Logic would prevail. Her heritage would defeat his endless chatter.

"… You would need a rock hammer, of course…"

His words stuck into her mind against her will, like an imposed mind meld. They made meditating very difficult and that didn't help her control her rage. But behind all the frustration, she found her strength in a newly discovered purpose. A very precise objective that she created for this precise mission.

"… I don't know if the Orions would allow posters in this cell, but maybe…"

Yes, it was the long, long leave of absence she would request when she delivered the Commander's head to Deputy Director Soval.


	11. All Quiet on the Western Front

**Author's note: **The _ri'telik-ek'zer _is a shameless invention created thanks to the Vulcan Language Dictionary._  
_

I think it's obvious by now, but I'm not following a chronological order from one chapter to the other. Chapters 9 and 11 happen later than chapter 10.

Also, as usual I'm leaving clues about some parts of the plot. This one has an obvious one. The bold minds can begin formulating some theories.

**Thanks to**: **Alelou**, who needs the next chapter as soon as possible.

Ah, before I forget, HAPPY NEW YEAR.

* * *

Soval rubbed the back of his neck. His back was hurting as if it was an open wound. He felt old, so old. Too old for his post, too old for his job. Too old for this life.

The signals of unread messages flickered on the monitor. He didn't open them. He was positive about their contents: news from the front. Or, more exactly, _no_ news from the front. Humans were advancing, slowly but surely. Their small victories were the sand grains flowing down in an hourglass.

Vulcan's time was over.

Wasn't that just how history worked, anyway? Civilizations rise and fall. That was the way of things. But it was hard to be the witness of the collapse.

At least, Human hadn't reached the First Defense Line yet. Varuka was safe.

Just as he let relief extend over his muscles, the comm. beeped. Soval pressed the button to open the channel. "Yes, T'Rama?"

"_Director General V'Lar's Personal Aide is here.__"_

Soval almost sighed, fatigued. Wouldn't it be easier and faster to call her T'Pau? He waited about two seconds until he realized his Aide wasn't going to talk on her own initiative. "What does she want?"

"_She requests a meeting. Now.__"_

"Let her in."

"_As you order, sir."_

T'Rama being more formal than usual could only mean worry for him but Soval found it oddly reassuring. He guessed what T'Rama's husband would say about her concern, bearing in mind that Soval was considered a little too sympathetic of Humans. Skon wasn't very fond of him.

T'Pau entered with her usual quietness, only broken by the soft rustle of her clothes. She was dressed in her customary formal robes, not the ordinary ones that everybody wore, which gave her an oddly matronly look. Peculiar, too, given her youthful face.

"Deputy Director Soval," she said with a slight nod.

Soval just couldn't be so formal to somebody who had sat on his knees years ago. Besides, he was her superior. "T'Pau."

She nodded again. Her hair ornament swung lightly. The _ri'telik-ek'zer _was made up of two thin braids at each side of her left ear joined under the earlobe by a tiny rounded emerald. The symbol of a non-bonded woman. An _ancient_ symbol, from the times of Surak, that almost nobody wore now. But T'Pau always wanted to do things the traditional way, didn't she? Especially if she could make a point at the same time.

"Did you want something?" Soval asked, before the silence in the room grew to uncomfortable proportions.

T'Pau stepped forward. Her hands clutched the padd she carried more tightly. "Director General V'Lar has requested me to inform you that the next assembly of the High Command will be soon."

"Soon?"

"She doesn't know the exact date, but the members of the Cabinet and most part of the Admiralty want to settle the issue with the Romulans as soon as possible."

"And what would be the decision, if the meeting took place in a short time?"

T'Pau exhaled from the nose. "Director General predicts that… we will have new allies."

Soval felt a burning sting expanding through his chest and the need to hit something, _anything_, became as real as the chair arms he was gripping. He could almost hear his father's voice: "Control your emotions, my son, or they will control you, and what would become of you if you cannot think? We are Vulcans, not sehlats."

He hardly noticed T'Pau stepping ahead until she made contact with his desktop.

Hundreds of images and feelings passed through him in vertiginous succession: a young Skon over the shrouded body of his father, careful not to move the remains of his head; High Priestess T'Mir summoning peace in a room full of grim rank officers; the nauseating stench of dead bodies on Paan Mokar; Syrran clinging to his lirpa, unable to face the massacre; Sokal holding his newly born daughter after he destroyed the samples of his neuro-toxin; child T'Pau in a corner, after being abandoned by her own family, by her own clan, the blood of her mother still on her clothes; T'Les and T'Pol in the funeral rituals for her deceased father, whose body had been obliterated in space; his own young, sweet, brave Sayal as a cadet, just before boarding into his first warship, just before he…

And all that, all the deaths, all the suffering, all the blood, everything, for _nothing_. Just to destroy their heritage at the hands of their most ancient enemies.

"Deputy Director Soval," T'Pau called.

But she sounded far away, so far way… _Focus on your breathing_, the voice of his father said, _focus on your heartbeats, on the rise and fall of your own chest, on every inch of your skin, on every particle that you are made of... Focus on your being._

A contact on his shoulder. "Uncle Soval."

He stared at her then, seeing her for the first time in several minutes. She was slightly bent so she was able to touch him with her hand. Her worry was so evident that he was about to scold her about her open emotions. But given the circumstances, and his own loss of control, he decided to let it go. "I am all right," he assured her with a weak voice.

"You momentarily—"

"I know." He made a hand gesture. T'Pau moved back. "I convey my apologies for any concern I may have sparked in you."

T'Pau nodded, just once. Proper, reserved, obedient T'Pau, so different from her father.

"Our fate is mostly decided, then," he said.

"No, not yet. The assembly hasn't been called. But our situation is complicated, as you can see." T'Pau threw suspicious glances to both sides. "If you are in possession of _any_ information that could change the majority opinion of the High Command, you must give it now."

"I don't have that kind of information _yet_." Soval looked at her with all intention. "I need time."

"You could just as well request the surrender of Andoria." T'Pau averted her eyes for about a fraction of a second, and her voice sounded softer when she said: "Director General is doing everything in her power to delay the meeting, but the excuses begin to sound empty."

Soval felt a fleeting sting of irritation that he quickly suppressed. "Perhaps I could be of more assistance if she answered some of my requests."

"What do you mean?"

"If she wants to find arguments that could spread doubts around the High Command, it would be a good idea to further investigate Commander Sopek's accusations against Stel."

"Stel?"

"He is apparently an agent of the ISS. _Your boss_ is the one responsible for the entire Intelligence Service, not me."

The absolute blankness in T'Pau's face told him she hadn't received that piece of information.

"Didn't V'Lar tell you about him, or about Sopek?" Soval asked.

No, of course not. It had everything to do with her sister's mission and any report was considered classified to a subordinate, out of the chain of command, who had a personal interest in it.

"Tell V'Lar that bringing up some questions about the Internal Security Service could give us more time. Also, tell her that if I don't get a longer period to gather proof, the only thing I could offer at the meeting would be polite nods. And we all know what that means for the alliance with the Romulans."

T'Pau's nod was almost imperceptible. "I will do as you demand, Deputy Director. Be aware, however, that Director General won't be able to spare you much longer."

"I will focus all my efforts into finding arguments to support my suspicions."

"Then, I am certain, she would have nothing more to request from you."

Soval leaned on the seat back, satisfied. T'Pau didn't move from her spot. Soval waited a full minute. T'Pau remained where she was. Soval arched his brow. "Did you want anything else?"

She played with the padd in her hands.

"T'Pau?"

A twitch of her mouth. A swallow. A sigh. "Can you tell me anything about my sister?"

Soval became tense. How much did she know? "T'Pol is in a top-secret mission and, as you know, I can't utter a word about it."

She dropped her head slightly. "Yes, I'm aware of that… But…" She clenched her jaws and something similar to irritation lighted in her eyes. "There are reports that have systematically been denied to me. Reports about disturbances in the Passage of Karadh'ss."

"T'Pau, I won't reveal anything. I _can't_."

"Tell me if she is still alive, at least."

Her eyes seemed to cover half of her face. Soval had a fleeting flash of the children T'Pau and T'Pol when the latter put the hands of her newly adopted sister over her sehlat's furred back to get it used to the foreign scent so it would recognize T'Pau as part of the family. The same expression of hope and dread was on T'Pau's face now. She was too emotional.

Soval fell silent. Even if he wanted to answer, he couldn't. He couldn't venture even a wild guess. He didn't have the faintest idea if T'Pol was alive, dead or _worse_.

"She is missing." T'Pau said. It wasn't a question.

"The less you know about it, the better for you."

"Don't treat me like a child. My infancy died with my mother." Spite. So strange in a Vulcan, even if it was T'Pau.

"Do you want to be charged for breach of legal duty?"

T'Pau set her jaw and lowered her eyes. Soval suffered a new flash of memory: T'Pol rubbing her bloodstained palm over Koss' chest, when she broke her engagement in front of their families. In front of the hooded T'Pau. Marking the lives of the three forever.

"I understand your concern," Soval said. "It is logical. Especially in these perilous times. However, control your emotions—"

"Or they will control you." T'Pau finished for him. Her face softened. "I remember."

Another flash: child T'Pau with her head bent, reading the _Teachings of Surak_, her sister T'Pol at her side, her eyes turned toward the starry sky.

"You sister is doing her duty, as you are. As am I. It's the only thing we can do, even if it serves for nothing."

"As Surak said: the outcome of our actions is entirely out of our control. Only intent remains entirely within our control."

Soval masked his astonishment. He had never heard that particular teaching of Surak. Then again, he wasn't an expert. T'Pau, on the other hand, was a real adept. It was entirely possible for him to have forgotten a line or two in the philosophy of the Father of Logic. Or the philosophy of his transcribers, anyway.

"Trust your sister's training."

"Yes, Deputy Director."

Another nod. Another drop of eyes. Another sign of her submission to authority. But he could see the faint glow of hostility in her pupils, partially hidden by her eyelashes. Even if she tried to deny it, she was too much like her father.

"I think I must retire now," she said.

"I'm sure your schedule is full."

She arched a brow at the understatement. Then she straightened up and performed the _ta'al_. "Peace and long life."

"Live long and prosper."

How inappropriate the greetings sounded in those times.

The door slid close after her. Soval remained alone in his office and suddenly it occurred to him that it was a good metaphor for life: Young people moved forward while the old ones stayed behind.

He was exaggerating, of course. He wasn't so old, he was just tired.

And alone.

He was left with fewer and fewer acquaintances. People like Sokal or Syrek were dead and Syrran, as far as he was concerned, was missing. Perhaps being responsible for Paan Mokar had led them to that destiny. It had marked them irremediably, at least. He still remembered Sokal's face — while they were mass burning the Andorian corpses on the surface — when he had been informed that the Army wanted him to make some minor changes in the neuro-toxin to use it again, this time on Vega.

Soval sighed and rubbed the back of his neck once more. He needed to meditate. He had been neglecting it for too long and, unlike the _V'tosh ka'tur_, he didn't believe it was possible for Vulcans to operate without meditation. Nor was it convenient.

But he had too much work. The Intelligence Service was busier than usual. _When phasers fall silent, mouths start to function_, as V'Lar used to say.

Fortunately he had only to be concerned for the news outside their borderlines. The ISS dealt with the disturbances among their own people. Even if he wanted to help, it would be impossible. Aside from the _V'tosh ka'tur_, the biggest source of insubordination came from Syrran, and Soval was personally too involved, and thus he didn't receive many reports on the matter. V'Lar made sure of it. Last he knew, Syrran had been in the Forge. Eccentric old fool…

Automatically Soval checked his inbox. No new messages. Varuka was safe.

His main concern now was the whereabouts of agent Sa'awek, also known as T'Pol, also known as the little girl who used to call him Sofa when she couldn't pronounce his name right. Commander Sopek's report wasn't encouraging. Abducted by Orion pirates. A Vulcan woman was very valued in the slave market. He expected — not "hoped," for "hope" wasn't Vulcan — that T'Pol would be able to negotiate with the Orions before being sold. Agent Sa'awek was resourceful. She was their best agent.

There was a more serious issue. Sopek had had many things to say about the man who led them, that one called Stel, and none of them had been good. Sopek had talked about his obvious enmity with agent Sa'awek, about his cold murder of a civilian on Risa, about how he ordered him to leave agent Sa'awek and the others behind when the Orions captured them. This, actually, was something that Sopek himself had thought was best. The logical choice, the needs of the many, the least of the evils. They had to run away. But, what had worried him was that to hide themselves, Stel had ordered them to enter Romulan space. When Sopek had spit out this information, he had almost choked, as if it was lethal venom. Romulan space was another way to say "sure and painful suicide."

Except that they hadn't been captured.

They had spent two days inside Romulan space and no bird of prey had even come to check on them. Or say "hello." Nothing.

And if Romulans were menacing when they acted, they were even more so when they _didn't_.

So Soval had gone to V'Lar, Director General of the Intelligence Service, his mentor and his friend, to obtain some answers. He had received the cold condescension of an old instructor of the Academy. It had been almost painful. Stel, she had said, was out of his jurisdiction. He was too personally involved. Soval understood that. What he understood less was V'Lar's orders to leave Sopek alone. Sopek had been _his_ subordinate.

But not anymore.

As for T'Pol, her capture was an inconvenience, but she was only a grain in the desert. She wasn't a priority, as hard as it was for him to accept it.

Soval had left V'Lar's office with the sensation that he had been in a kind of mirror universe.

And now he was sitting down in front of the monitor, not knowing how to act. Or more precisely, how to react.

He looked at the inbox. No new messages. Varuka was safe.

Ignoring the pain of his neck he straightened his back and began to write new orders:

_From: Deputy Director Soval_

_To: All the Operatives in the Orion space _

_Priority: Green_

_Issue: Finding a missing agent _


	12. Strangers in the Night

**Author's note****:** Yes, I know the situation with Trip and T'Pol is getting long, but I need to make clear there is forming a kind of a bond between them, OK? Otherwise what happens from chapter 16 on wouldn't be believable.

The _fo-latesu_ is, again, a shameless invention.

**Thanks** to **Alelou**, who not only edits my chapters but she also spots obscure references to _Fatal Attractions_.

* * *

Trip swallowed. It hurt because of his raspy throat.

He had been talking for _hours_. He had never talked so much about nothing in all his life. Not even on a date.

How sad was it to think that this was the closest thing to a date he had experienced in a long time? And his partner wasn't even the worst he had ever had. She was extraordinarily silent, but she hadn't shouted in disgust when he told her about one of his favorite movie scenes — a little alien coming out from the stomach of an astronaut— in all its gory glory.

Besides, now that he took a look at her, she was even tolerable.

_Am I so pathetically desperate? Seriously?_

Trip's gaze wandered around the dull cell. It focused on the alien not much later. It was understandable: he hadn't really seen a Vulcan before — not a motionless one who actually was alive, at least — and he could notice the little details.

She was very slender, an interpretation increased by her long, long limbs. That's why Vulcans were called "green monkeys" sometimes. It wasn't actually true. Monkeys had long arms and torso, but very short legs. Vulcans had elongated legs and a short torso. Trip knew then why he had been fooled the first time he had met her. Since Vulcans as a rule were high-waisted, it was difficult to make out the differences between males and females. Especially in the dark!

But she wasn't a male. Nuh-uh. His gaze moved across her delicate face, from her rounded jaw to her upswept eyebrows and sculpted cheeks. The hair gave her a boyish look. The full lips made an odd contrast. Not entirely unappealing, though. The neck was a coppery and stylized brushstroke and he could notice the heartbeat in a lighter spot near her carotid. Much, much faster than the Humans. But a steady one. And if you went lower you met…

No, definitively not a male.

She was very well endowed. Any man could see it, even Malcolm, and Malcolm was a butt man. If she had a rear as praiseworthy as the prow, she _would be_ his best date in a long time.

Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked straight at him.

Trip startled and averted his eyes at light speed. He could feel her staring at him. He had the chilling sensation that she knew exactly where he had been looking at.

No doubt she thought he was a complete moron.

Well, and what if he did? What could he care about a Vulcan's opinion?

"Distracted?" she asked and he would have sworn he saw a spark of amusement in her gaze. "You stopped talking."

"No, I… My throat is dry." He grabbed his own neck to emphasize his words.

"May I assume that you finished your _fascinating_ lecture then?"

She was able to utter words like "fascinating" as if they were laser blasts.

"I just took a break," he answered. "What, didn't you like it?"

"I was hardly listening."

This Vulcan had some interesting comebacks.

"I thought you found interesting the joke about the engineer boy and the frog."

It wasn't a lie. He had noticed her furrow her brows as if she was concentrating in his words.

He mustered a mischievous smile. "Am I wrong?"

She tilted her head, taking care that the device in her left ear didn't get too close to her shoulder. The need to take the Orion device apart was killing him, but he had learned (the hard way) that he couldn't manipulate his own. There was an alternative: asking her to let him check hers. He didn't need a profound knowledge of Vulcan behaviour to realize that she would deny his request. Heck, if they were in opposite positions he would do the same. For now, the only thing he could do was look at it from afar. It looked terribly big and unsophisticated, like a big chunk of iron stuck to her ear, her very Vulcan ear. Those ears were weirdly cute.

Trip knew — from what Malcolm had told him — that Vulcans couldn't understand the Humans' fascination with their ears. But, c'mon, they had pointed ears, like magical creatures in children books, like elves. In fact, she could pose as an Elven maiden from Middle Earth: slim, beautiful, graceful and Human only in shape. Or maybe as a little elf in Santa Claus' cabin.

_Little Elf, hah! That's a good name for her._

He hadn't introduced himself and now he felt that doing so seemed out of place. They weren't guests in a party, precisely. She was an enemy, an enemy he didn't trust even a bit.

She had said she was part of the science team. He had guessed it first and her uniform confirmed it, but Trip had a hunch that it was a lie. She didn't act like a simple science officer. Although she was sitting down Indian style, she had all her muscles tense, ready to jump at the earliest opportunity. She didn't look at the world as a scientist or even as an engineer would; she glared like Malcolm, not seeing machinery and technology, but escape routes and ways to kill people.

Perhaps on Vulcan things worked differently, but in his experience geeks didn't act like MACOs.

The question was why would she lie? She could, obviously, have been an assault soldier before, or she could have trained better than the average Vulcan because of some kind of promise or childhood trauma.

Or she could be a spy.

Trip fidgeted on his bunk bed. He had to make sure not to suffer any slip. The last thing he needed was to divulge official secrets to the enemy. He was impulsive, not stupid.

Li'l Elf still had her stare fixed on him. He felt a strange mix of apprehension and attraction. She was like a cat: intelligent, enigmatic, stylish and only affectionate to Humans out of self-interest.

A rushed screech outside the cell made her snap her head and even raise her hand as a gesture to silence him. Dull rhythmic thuds — steps? — sounded in the corridor, coming closer and then going straight past.

Then silence.

"Do you have any idea what may happen to us?" he asked, because he couldn't stand the silence and because she seemed to have more knowledge about that matter than him and he _needed_ to know.

Li'l Elf focused on him again. God, she had beautiful eyes, with long eyelashes. So Human.

"Do you mean what the Orions plan to do with us?"

"Well, I know they'll sell us as slaves, I get that much. What I don't know is… They have to transport us to a slave market first, don't they?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"OK, how long would the journey take?"

Her expression turned pensive. "It depends. They probably will want to do search the area for more possible targets so they can maximize their fuel and goods. And then they will have to use the less patrolled but most likely longer way to the closest illegal market in Orion space. I calculate we will be in this ship around a week."

"I see… I always thought that it was easier than that. I'm sure the Orion government doesn't advertise these kind of transactions, but I suspected it wouldn't make things really difficult."

Li'l Elf tilted her head in his direction and said in a low voice. "I think the ones who captured us are marauders."

"Well, they are Orion _pirates_."

The glare she threw at him was long and cold. "I was referring to Orion slave traders without license."

"Uh… sorry, the what?"

"They are considered outlaws by Orion government."

"No, no, wait… Anybody knows that obviously Orion government takes its share from piracy, but they do it _in secret_. I had no idea that the Orion Government has publically declared pirates legal."

"Officially they don't condone their actions. Unofficially, they do if they are accredited."

Trip just couldn't believe his ears. "You are kiddi— You mean there are Orion pirates and _pirate_ Orion pirates?"

"In simplistic terms, yes."

Trip ignored the jab. "Why?"

"The slave sale is a lucrative business and like every business it is regulated. The Orion Syndicate sells licenses for piracy and charge taxes for the merchandise. Not every Orion has resources to do piracy for a living, so some of them resort to clandestine methods."

"I see…"

It actually made sense. Trip remembered reading about pirates when he was a kid. He recalled that the British, the French, the Dutch, the Spanish and, in general, anybody that wanted their share of the seas, authorized ships to attack foreign shipping from the XVI to the XIX century. Privateers, they were called, if he wasn't wrong.

He would never have guessed that the same thing could happen in the XXII century in space, though.

"I'm sure the Orion government doesn't approve of these unofficial pirates," he said.

"You guess right."

Trip let out a short bemused whistle. "Being an Orion outlaw sounds like a dangerous way of life."

"It is _very_ dangerous. The licensed slave traders hunt ships like these down."

"Is that so? And what would happen if those official pirates seize this ship? What would be the consequences for us? Would they free us?"

"Hardly. If they fail to destroy the ship in the process of boarding it, they will kill the entire crew, claim all the merchandise as theirs and then they will sell us in the market."

"Oh, bummer." He smiled at her sadly. "No easy getaway from this situation, huh?"

The gravity of the situation hit him. He had eluded it until then, busying himself with a thousand and one actions, thoughts and words. Babbling to annoy the Vulcan had served as a way to forget his own misery, but once he had verbalized his fear, it had taken form inside his chest, like a gnawing rodent.

His friends, his family, his freedom… Everything... lost. Just like that.

"Don't expect a rescue," she said suddenly.

Trip lifted his gaze to gape at her. "What?"

"It is easiest to come to terms with the captivity if you don't expect a rescue."

Wow… That had been… That had possibly been sympathetic. Could Vulcans be encouraging?

Even if he didn't trust Vulcans and he didn't trust this Vulcan particularly, Trip didn't have a personal resentment against that species. Not like the Cap'n, anyway. He hadn't suffered any ill-treatment like his, though. For Trip, they were just enemies. They were in a war and he had gotten used to the idea of killing them. Maybe he didn't like that idea much, but he had become accustomed to it.

He had killed a bunch of them himself. He didn't keep the trophies, nor the hatred or satisfaction it entailed.

Besides, _technically_ speaking he owed his life to a Vulcan. Not that he was proclaiming it to the four winds.

So he could be amused at and not only wary of Li'l Elf.

She seemed as imperturbable as always (or, at least, through the hours he had known her.) She didn't show any visible signs of stress, fear, nervousness or anxiety. It was as if she was a robot. An android would be the exact term. Like in that movie…

_Oh, that could be fun._

He could perform an experiment just to spend time, because it was the only thing he had to lose.

"Eh… Ah… Do you mind if I ask you something?"

Li'l Elf didn't answer. Trip took the silence as an assent.

"It's some kind of a test, actually."

She remained quiet. Her eyes seemed to narrow a bit, though.

"Just answer the first thing that comes to your mind, OK?"

Did her mouth twitch? Or maybe he was imagining things.

_Here we go…_ "You are walking in a desert when suddenly you look down and you see a tortoise… A turtle. Do you know what that is?"

She looked dubious, as if she was reflecting on the question.

"It's an animal, from Earth. A chelonian. They have four legs, are very slow moving and they're surrounded by a shell that works as a shield to protect them from predators." He did a circular gesture with two hands as if he was wrapping something. "Do you have anything similar on your planet?"

She seemed a little taken aback. "Yes. The _fo-latesu_, it had a spiked shell that it can use to ram its enemies."

"_Ram_ them?"

"Yes."

"It's not so similar then… How big is it?"

"Like a Vulcan child several years before reaching puberty."

"Can you flip them over their back?"

She was looking at him with — he was sure — the Vulcan equivalent of _He Has Lost It_. "It would require a remarkable strength and ability, but yes, you can flip them over on their back."

"And if you flip them they can't turn themselves right-side up by themselves."

"No."

"OK, then… You are walking in a desert and you see this… this…"

"Fo-latesu."

"Yeah, the fortess…"

"Fo-latesu. Fo. La. Te. _Su_."

"Fo-lesu."

He had the feeling that if she wasn't Vulcan she would have rolled her eyes.

"So you see this Vulcan turtle thing," he went on, "and it's advancing toward you. Then you flip it over its back. The Vulcan turtle lies on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, trying to turn itself over, but it can't, not without your help. But you're not helping. Why is that?"

A heavy silence. Then…

"What kind of ludicrous question is that?"

"It's a test."

"A test about what? Insanity?"

"It's just a test. C'mon, amuse me and answer the question."

"I won't. It's preposterous. You are basing my answer on false premises."

That was interesting. "Am I?"

"Yes, you assume, first, that I would flip the _fo-latesu_ over its back and two, that I would let it stay in that position and not help it. I wouldn't do that. It's cruel and unnecessary."

"So you distinguish a difference between cruel and unnecessary."

She meditated her answer. He noticed the vertical line that formed between her brows. "Sometimes you must perform cruel activities precisely because that cruelty _is_ necessary," she said.

"And do you know it?"

"Know what?"

"When something is cruel."

She clenched her lips until forming a thin line. "So that is what this is about."

"What?"

"The Human theory that Vulcans don't have feelings. Only Humans have them, or at least _theirs _are the only ones that count."

It would have been easy to accept it and begin an argument. Hell, part of him wanted just to yell at her, as useless as it was, to release his frustration into something, somebody. But some part of Trip's brain thought otherwise. "That wasn't what I meant. Or not completely, at least. What I wanted to know was if you can acknowledge that you're being cruel to a Human. When we are different species."

She narrowed her eyes for a moment. Then she softened her face. "If I can understand when I am being cruel to a _fo-latesu_, there is all the more reason to assume that I would know when I am being cruel to a Human."

"And have you? Been cruel to a Human?"

"Have you been cruel to a Vulcan?"

"I asked first."

She blinked, perhaps taken aback. Trip cracked a self indulgent smile, as he was sure she was going to dodge the question.

"Yes, I have been cruel to a Human," she answered.

It was Trip's time to blink. She was full of surprises. Why would she confess something like that? What was the purpose of such a confession?

"Now, my turn: did you performed any cruel act on a Vulcan?" she asked.

Now the ball was in his court. Had that been her intention? After her reply, what could be his? Did it matter? Lie, truth… Anything that suited him, or not.

And then he decided this wasn't about her, it was about him.

"Yes, I did," he said at last and felt the words burn his throat as he uttered them.

He remembered the Vulcan soldier that he and the rest of the team in the old _Voyager_ caught, after he had killed Cutler. They had penned him in the refrigeration system. He remembered his blank face as he waited when Trip pushed the button to flood the tank.

It had been a moment, only a moment of pure madness, where he let all his hatred unleash. It had never happened again. And still…

"Did you like it?" she asked. Her voice lacked any emotion.

Trip could still see the Vulcan, submerged in the middle of the refrigeration liquid, smacking the tank in a desperate attempt to get out. "No. No, I didn't," he said in a voice he wasn't sure would be audible.

"You didn't like it or you don't want to admit to yourself that you liked it?"

Her words woke up a burning rage in him. He couldn't stand a Vulcan criticizing him. Not when it reminded him that he couldn't forgive himself.

"And did you enjoy your torture sessions with Humans?" he hissed.

She arched a brow, unfazed. "You prejudices are interesting. I didn't say I practiced torture nor that I had been cruel to more than one individual."

"Whatever."

Something strange happened then: instead of the anger or rejection he expected, her face only showed the weakest shadow of sympathy. Which, coming from a Vulcan, was the most unsettling thing Trip had ever seen.

"We Vulcans cannot experience self-satisfaction with our actions. Even less if they are of such a nature."

"Are you going to come up with that bullshit now?" His attitude was rather childish, but he couldn't stand her cool demeanour.

"It is not something we observe for the sake of you Humans. It is for us. Strong emotions are counterproductive. They could blind us."

Her words touched a fibre inside him. It was like she was talking _about_ him instead _to_ him. Almost as if she understood him. Trip couldn't shake the feeling that she was manipulating him. Even so, he needed to gather answers from her. "And what if that person deserves it? What if he has killed somebody you know, somebody you care about?"

She was thoughtful for a while. "A Vulcan shouldn't be cruel to anybody, no matter how much you think your enemy deserves it. You must stem your impulses, especially if they are that strong." She looked right in his eyes and Trip would have sworn her stare pierced his soul. Then she straightened her back again in her best Vulcan posture. "Now let me meditate."

Disappointment made him clench his fists. Just when things were getting interesting… "What? You were meditating not a quarter hour before."

"It was deficient. Your constant talk didn't let me concentrate."

Trip rolled her tongue along one side of his mouth, amused. "It's an excuse, isn't it? You use the 'meditation card' whenever you want to sidestep from a conversation."

"No, I _really_ need to meditate, like any other Vulcan."

"I'm sure that those legends about your need to meditate are just old wives' tales. C'mon, what's the worst thing that could happen if you don't?"

She actually sighed. "Do you know what a _kres-pakik_ is?"

"A Vulcan berserker, isn't it?"

She nodded, her face stern. "Do you want me to _become_ one?"

He would have joked if it wasn't for her stony expression. This was not a matter for joking, it seemed.

"Let me meditate, for our mutual best interest," she said. For the first time he heard real anxiety in her voice.

So Vulcans could get nervous too. It was good to know.

The lights on the cell turned off as if to punctuate his sudden moment of enlightenment. How fitting.

"Time to sleep, I gue—"

He didn't have time to end the sentence as a quick slithering sound echoed in the room and a hand with the grip of a pair of steel pliers grabbed his balls. Out of surprise he released his right arm to strike. It was stopped with uncanny easiness by another hand.

"Wha—?"

Trip was pinned up against the wall. Great, of all Vulcans, he had ended up with one who could kill and boil a pet bunny.

He felt Li'l Elf's sultry breathing against his face. She smelled like sand and… liniment? He tried to move, but he couldn't. She was _really_ strong. Shock gave away to apprehension.

"What are you doing?" he squeaked.

"I warn you that if you touch me, get near my bunk or even _think_ about the possibility of having any sort of sexual activity with me I will put my knowledge about Human males' anatomy into practice. Especially what I know about neutering them." She clenched the hand gripping his crotch more forcefully.

Not even fear could shut him up. "Are you implying I'd make a pass at you? Or worse, that I would _force_ you? What kind of animal do you think I am?"

"A Human."

That was just outrageous. "What, all Humans are rapists now? And you complained about my generalizations… I'm a gentleman! I haven't, don't and won't do anything like that in my life." He drew his face up next to hers to hiss: "Besides, you aren't that attractive."

He sensed her move back her head and hold her breath for about two seconds.

"So may I assume you will not attempt any act with violent or sexual connotations against me?"

"You may."

"And do I have your promise that you will be quiet all the time the lights are turned off?"

"Wha—? Argh!" He felt an excruciating pain coming from his genitals. "OK, yes, I promise!" The pressure in his crotch decreased. "Are you crazy, or what?"

"No, I am only cautious. Prevention is better than a cure, isn't that what you Humans say?"

She released him and moments later he heard the muffled screech of her spring mattress.

Trip sighed out of relief and exasperation. There he was, in an Orion ship, left in the darkness, with only an enemy of the most enigmatic behaviour for company, and he couldn't even swear.

* * *

**Final note:** The test Trip tries on T'Pol is none other than the _Voight-Kampff test_ as we see it in the movie _Blade Runner_.


	13. Everybody Is Kung Fu Fighting

**Author's note:** About time, I know. Lot of things happened.

This chapter has been difficult because it deals with two things that are very difficult to write for me: Malcolm's character and military POV. I've tried to make it as faithful as I could, so any Malcolm fan or anybody who actually has any idea of military life and philosophy, please, be nice.

The term _voles_ is used by the soldiers to call the Vulcans, thanks to **Alelou** for finding the perfect name. The Vulcans are also called _greenies_ and _green monkeys_. Also, **thanks** to **Alelou**, for her editing and her patience with long political speeches that had to be cut down.

By the way, this story is not an allegory of today's politics, even less of US politics. It has things of different periods in History — which is easy, since History always repeats itself — but it's just a work of fiction. The political system in this story, for the ones who were wondering, is the semi-presidential system (think of France or Finland.)

* * *

At first glance, the _ushaan_ duel looked too ridiculously dangerous to Malcolm. The fighters were tied together by a chain just a couple of feet long, with the very sharp _ushaan-tor_ as a weapon.

On the other hand, it had its advantages. It didn't leave much room to manoeuvre, but it didn't leave much for the other fighter, either. Any attack had to be carefully measured, since you could expose any weakness to the opponent, so it wasn't as fast as somebody might think. Things like tripping the opponent were a bad idea, since if he fell, you would fall with him. And the _ushaan-tor_ was sharp, but nobody could _juggle _with it.

In other words: it was based in the utopian military view of perfect egalitarian fight, where you are tied to your opponent by blood and honour and your only way is to attack head on, without deceit.

Very Andorian, that.

Very stupid, that.

Years had taught Malcolm that a good soldier was the one who could accomplish the mission, protect his comrades in the process, and get away alive.

If he respected his enemies it was only because it could assure respect for his men. It was a _Quid pro quo_ more than a feeling of his heart. Not that he didn't respect some of the enemy soldiers and officers he had encountered; it was just that he didn't share the Andorians' childish and somewhat naïve vision of life and its inhabitants.

The blade of Shran's _ushaan-tor_ whizzing by his right cheek interrupted his thoughts and brought him back to reality.

"If you use your head too much and your hands too little you could end up losing the former, Major," Shran said as he waved his weapon in a playful way.

Malcolm and Shran had begun their sparring at the Andorian art of _ushaan_ about two years ago — just after they met as officers on the _Enterprise_ and Shran mocked boxing as training— and although Malcolm had greatly improved in that time and it wasn't a _real_ fight, it was still dangerous. Major Reed valued his limbs (and his ego) too much to allow any silly mistake. "And if you use your tongue too much, Commander, some unscrupulous person could decide to cut it," he answered.

Shran burst out laughing.

Fighting, jokes, friendly chatting and laughter: that had been their routine every Tuesday since they had begun. It was just Shran and him, two soldiers and friends, face to face.

"I wonder if the puns count in the final score?" a third ironic voice asked.

Okay, it was just Shran and him and Hayes. Hayes often watched them spar, especially after he had proclaimed himself fit for duty despite Phlox's complains and instructions. He was leaning on the wall bars now with his arms crossed and a light smile of self-sufficiency on his lips.

Malcolm would have liked to wipe away his smug expression with a punch. In fact, that would take them back to how they met: they had argued in a bar, Malcolm (then a little hothead) had broken a beer bottle on Hayes' head, and from that moment on they had been best buddies.

When Hayes had told that story to Lieutenant Sato she had rolled her eyes and declared: "Men." Malcolm didn't mind her comeback. He _did_ mind Hayes telling her about it because, in Malcolm's opinion, Hayes was verging on fraternization, talking to her as if they were close friends. That made Malcolm uneasy.

"What's happening, Captain Hayes, is that you are jealous," said Shran and pulled the chain that linked him to Malcolm to check his attention level.

Malcolm took the pull, held the chain and tried a quick swipe against Shran's left side. The Andorian repelled the attack with a graceful twist of his waist.

"Yes, yes, I'm very jealous of your pseudo-BDSM routine," Hayes replied.

"What's BDSM?" Shran asked at the same time that a mortified Malcolm shouted "Shut up!"

"Sorry, sir, but he's Andorian and everybody knows that their sex life is on the kinky side."

"Shut up!"

"Sorry, sir."

Malcolm sighed. Hayes was polite and considerate, the perfect officer and gentleman, most of the time, but if you left him in a comfortable environment with people he trusted he tended to display his deeply sardonic soul.

Malcolm stared at Shran. Considering Andorians' volatile character, he expected a full escalation in swearing, name-calling and questioning of ancestry. Shran mustered a sly smile instead. "As I've said, jealous." Shran pretended to look touched. "So much loyalty coming from a pinkskin moves me to tears."

"I thought I joined the Army, not a stand-up comedy routine," Malcolm said.

"Excuse me, sir, but I must remind you that _we_ are in the Army; Commander Shran here is part of the privileged carriers group that people know as _EarthFleet_."

"What?" Shran said.

Hayes grinned. "Well, everybody knows that your only task is carrying the MACOs to the battle."

Malcolm pointed at Hayes in silent plea. Shran glared at Hayes, then at Malcolm, then at the chain that linked them, only to charge against him like a rabid animal at the end. A part of Malcolm's mind — the part that wasn't busy imagining ways to save his skin — marvelled at the Andorian's flow and mastery with the weapon. The _ushaan_ was so fast that it looked like a continuous silver wave. Malcolm had fought against Vulcans, against berserker Vulcans, and even against an Orion once. Shran had them all beat. Probably he could beat Malcolm. On the other hand, Shran was attacking him for no reason at all. He hadn't said anything, Hayes had. Shouldn't Shran beat _Hayes_ to a pulp?

Fortunately for him, the Andorians had a high metabolic rate, so he only had to endure six minutes of homicidal intent before Shran stopped to take a breath.

"A good defense, sir," Hayes said.

"Don't sugarcoat it!"

"I have to praise Commander Shran too, of course. Because—"

"Don't try to help me, Hayes. You have talked enough for a month."

Hayes concealed what looked like the beginning of a smirk.

"I hate… to say this…" Shran managed, between pants. "But… the ice-bore here… is right. You have… been… very impressive. Astounding blocking… Major."

"That's because… I'm quite fond of my head," Malcolm answered. He chose his words carefully to hide the panic he'd been feeling.

"If you are any indication…" Shran seemed to choke with his own saliva and coughed. "Humans are very resourceful, indeed."

Malcolm feinted and tried a surprise blow against Shran's shoulder. The Andorian blocked the hit with the chain and swept the _ushaan-tor_ towards Malcolm's leg. Malcolm jumped to avoid the attack and withdrew again.

"And courageous!" Shran burst out, with the enthusiasm of a child who was splashing around. He held Malcolm's stare for a second, his expression was suddenly troubled. "I wouldn't want to lose you as allies."

Malcolm glanced at Hayes. The Captain shrugged.

"What are you talking about?" Malcolm asked Shran.

"I've heard what this Paxton says about aliens in general and Andorians in particular." Shran held his _ushaan-tor_ tighter. "He shouldn't speak like this about your allies."

Malcolm was tempted to laugh but thought better of it. "He's in a campaign. Typical political bullshit to earn votes."

"They say he's the favourite to win the… elections." He uttered the last word with obvious disdain.

"Who says that?"

"Your information channels."

"How do you—? Not even I listen to the news from home."

"Our Andorian liaison informed me, as a warning."

Malcolm stared at Hayes for a longer time. Paxton's xenophobic propaganda wasn't just verging on mental deficiency, it was also very harmful for Earth's interests. Couldn't that dweeb see that Humans needed the Andorians as allies? "You know how our politicians are," Malcolm said.

"Useless and dishonourable leaders with no backbone?"

That hurt. "As if your leaders are always truthful and honourable."

"At least we're ashamed when they're not."

"We are too, it's just that we fake it better. Or perhaps it's because we see it as a lesser evil. You know, civilian and military worlds shouldn't mix."

"That's the problem with you Humans: you shouldn't have a civilian class, or if you have it, the military cast should _guide_ it."

Malcolm grimaced. There was a time when he had thought that was possible and just, and had decided to join Section 31. But that had happened in another time, when he was a greenhorn just out from under the authoritarian regime of his father. He had discovered soon enough that he was wrong.

Even now he thought that some military (and some that liked to call themselves military) were too involved in politics. Malcolm didn't like that in the slightest. When a soldier began to rub shoulders with politicians he ended up being as short-sighted and relativist as them, and these were traits that Malcolm despised in any human being, even more so if that human being wanted a military career.

"Not my job. I'm not a shepherd. I'm the sheepdog," he said out loud. "Would I want politicians to be decent people and not bloody retards that can't see beyond their four years term and would sell their own mothers? Yes. But I'm not going to step into their shoes. I'm just here to serve and protect my people."

"Even when they choose wrong?"

"Even then."

"Even when they choose people with no military knowledge? Because you know that your politicians didn't serve in the army."

"True. The new ones, anyway." Malcolm tilted his _ushaan-tor_ and light reflected on the blade. "Once upon a time, every politician had fought in the war."

"They can't lead you in battle then."

"You know what? I'd rather it be that way," Hayes said. "I hate when politicians without any military background think they know how to win a battle better than the real military. I loathe Paxton for that. He talks about honor and blood and sacrifice, but he's never been in a real battle. And his minions for the Parliament aren't better than him, those rotten glory seekers. Before him I'd vote for Hadid. Yes, she's a full civilian, but at least she has said more than once that she respects the military and has no intention of arguing any tactical decision of us. That's better than Paxton's panegyrics of how victory will be ours and he will lead us to it, when he and his men only know about war _by hearsay_."

"Do your comrades think like you?" Shran asked.

Malcolm threw Hayes a warning glare. Even if talking about political choices among soldiers was allowed, one never knew who was listening. Not that any soldier had encountered any problem for just talking about a candidate that didn't win the elections. Officially.

"Possibly," Hayes said in a level tone.

"If the military think like that how is Paxton going to win?"

"We soldiers don't vote much," Hayes answered.

True. The last thing soldiers wanted between battles was to fill out paperwork in order to vote long-distance from home. Besides, members of the military were disenchanted enough to avoid voting. What for? Any politician was the same for them. Their situation wasn't going to vary much depending on the choice.

"But even if soldiers don't vote, surely the civilians… You're actually in a war," Shran insisted.

"Not Earth, the planet, itself," Hayes said. "The last attack against Earth was almost 50 years ago. Civilian life there is very different to the front and it is civilian life that politicians rule."

Malcolm nodded. He remembered the last time he had visited Earth. He had felt like an alien. Everybody there lived as if there wasn't any conflict in space. They didn't even acknowledge how lucky they were for being able to take a walk through a park without fearing any explosion around them. They could sit down and chat about insignificant things. To the children Vulcans were only legends, no more real for them than unicorns.

A very deep part of Malcolm — the one that remembered the name of all the dead soldiers under his watch — had felt a sadistic satisfaction that those losers had morons as their leaders. The rational side of Malcolm tried to fight that feeling, because he thought he was more honourable than that.

"Civilian people need civilian leaders," he said out loud. His tone was even and controlled. "That's why we fight. We fight so our families won't know war. I love military life, but I dream of the day we won't be necessary."

"Elect that Paxton and you won't have peace," Shran said.

Malcolm blinked in surprise. "Is that a threat?"

"No."

"It sure sounded like one," Hayes said. Malcolm could feel that he was trying to sound facetious even if he couldn't achieve it.

Shran began to move towards Malcolm from his left. Malcolm moved to the right, so they were circling each other now.

"That pinkskin has some radical ideas that go against Andoria's interest."

"Shran, don't worry, he won't do anything to compromise our position in the war."

"He's disrespectful towards us."

"He's just bluffing." Malcolm wished that more than he wished anything.

"What if he isn't? What if he does something we Andorians don't like? What if he does something _you_ don't like?"

"Nothing."

Shran scowled at him and he decided to explain himself. "If it's against the law I can disobey those orders. If they are against my beliefs I can file an official complain and wait for the decision. But if it's just a decision I don't share coming from my President, then I'm sorry, but I can't do anything. Doing otherwise is mutiny because a President's decision is an order from my superior. Nor can you. I remind you that you're an _EarthFleet_ member. We're soldiers, Shran; we don't rise against our democratically elected Government." Malcolm had had that principle ingrained on his soul. As a child, he could receive a brutal beating in the name of discipline — or, rather, the lack of it — but his father had never uttered a word against the legitimacy of the Government. "Besides, for every piece of nonsense he has come out with, he has also said more than once that his priority is ending the war."

"What if, in order to end the war, he signs a peace agreement with the Vulcans?"

"We _will_ sign a peace treaty with them once they surrender. That's the usual way. That's what I expect."

"What if your Government signs this treaty without waiting for their surrender?"

"Like an armistice?"

"Yes."

Malcolm thought it over. "With our side winning, it would be just a step short of Vulcan's capitulation. Even if we weren't, it could be even beneficial for us. I'm not a fan of the _voles_, but it could be the best for Earth: none of us want war, after all."

A change in the light of Shran's eyes told him that this was in fact not true.

"You can't possibly propose to end this war without annihilating those monsters. You can't trust the Green Menace; they are a dishonourable and cunning species." Shran's body trembled with pure fury and Malcolm remembered that the Andorian's brother had died in the war. "You Humans won't end this war except with the destruction of Vulcan! It would be…" He shut up abruptly.

"It would be what?"

Shran's mouth twitched in a disdainful grimace. "Unwise."

Malcolm stopped their circular dance. "Shran, are you trying to tell us something?"

His antennae perked up, like the ears of a dog that had heard something approaching. "No, nothing." His expression darkened. "I'm trying to explain to you that my superiors won't like it if Paxton becomes your next President. I didn't want to imply anything more serious than a possible diplomatic clash." Shran tried an unsure smile. "Come on, you trust me, don't you?"

Of course he trusted Shran. With his life.

In some ways (a lot of ways) it seemed impossible that two people as different as Malcolm and Shran — one so introverted and reflexive while the other was so expansive and volatile — could get along so well. However, they shared a common ethical ground.

Malcolm had discovered it in one of the side fights after the Battle of Terra Nova. Vulcans had attacked by surprise and had boarded several Human ships, the _Challenger_ and the _Voyager_ among them. In the middle of the chaotic aftermath, Malcolm had ended up in one side corridor along with Hayes. A grenade had exploded and had collapsed part of the wall. When Malcolm approached he saw a Vulcan under the rubble. Upon closer inspection he realized a metallic rod was sticking out from the alien's chest. It had gone through his left lung. If they moved him he would instantly die between bloody coughs and rasping breaths and if they left him there he would have a very painful and very slow death. A cruel death. Malcolm had killed a dozen of Vulcans not even an hour ago. He had riddled with laser beams a _kres'pakik_ that was attacking one of his men and he had used the butt of his rifle to smash his head once he was on the ground. But this Vulcan was alone and helpless, just a soldier struggling to survive a little longer. And sometimes you could see parts of yourself in the eyes of your enemy. It had been in that moment that Shran turned up in the corridor. He was a lieutenant or lieutenant commander then and that was the first time met. Malcolm had hardly looked at him, just enough to detect his presence. Without word or warning Malcolm kneeled and took out his phase pistol. He put it in kill mode. He showed it to the Vulcan. The Vulcan — who looked awfully young — nodded, just once, with his eyes fixed on the Human. Malcolm could swear he had saw understanding in the Vulcan's eyes. Then he shot. When he had looked up to stare at Shran, instead of the reproach he had expected, the Andorian had nodded.

No words needed. No explanations required. They shared the understanding of old warriors.

That same understanding told him that Shran was hiding something. He guessed that his superiors were bugging him to know more about the elections and how the Human soldiers saw it, as Malcolm's own superiors tended to do with him, due to his friendship with the Andorian. "Yes, I trust you. These are difficult times, my friend, and we soldiers must stick together. My family has spent 400 years fighting and defending our land _despite_ the politicians, and I'm not going to give them that satisfaction now."

Shran's face changed like a windy spring day: it went from stormy to bright in less than a second. It was amazing how fast the Andorians' moods swung. Sometimes they were like children.

"Well, Major, then no more talking about politics!" Shran exclaimed as he spread his arms in a friendly gesture (pulling Malcolm's linked arm with him in the process). "Let's keep fighting. And after our sparring I'll invite you to a drink of some good Andorian ale."

"Me too?" Hayes asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

"If you don't fight, you don't drink."

Hayes opened his mouth. Malcolm cut him short. "You're still recovering from your wound, so no fighting and no alcohol for you."

Hayes actually pouted.

Without prior warning, Shran ran in a semicircle around Malcolm and immobilized his arm against his back. Malcolm turned fast enough to block Shran's thrust. Then Malcolm took advantage of Shran's position to try to elbow him with his chained arm. Shran dodged and withdrew.

The Andorian checked Malcolm's reaction time, tugging the chain and feigning movements to the left or the right that didn't materialize. Malcolm's senses were focused on his opponent until all of them decided to instead converge on a newcomer who had entered into the gym and was walking to some point behind Malcolm's back. He turned his head to follow the newcomer, Hoshi.

The next thing he knew something with the force of a runaway horse hit him and threw him to the ground. When he looked up he could see Hayes and Shran above him. The Captain had grabbed Shran's armed arm with his bare hands, blocking the Andorian's straightforward attack against Malcolm.

"Are you all right, sir?" Hayes asked.

Malcolm could only nod.

"With all due respect… What the hell where you trying to do, Commander?" Hayes demanded of Shran.

"Training," the Andorian said, as if it was obvious.

"You could have injured him seriously."

"It's not my fault if he wasn't paying attention."

Malcolm raised a hand to stop their bickering. He glanced at Hoshi to see if she had noticed his gaffe. She was too busy with her padd.

Malcolm got on his feet with a jump, freed himself from the chain before Shran could object, and walked towards Hoshi. He could hear Hayes and Shran following him.

"By the way, astounding speed, Captain. You impressed me," the Andorian said.

"Thanks." Hayes sounded bothered, although Malcolm was damned if he knew why.

Hoshi was sitting on the floor with her back resting on the pillar that created a virtual separation between the fighting mat and the weight lifting machines.

"What did I do now?" she asked when Malcolm approached her.

"Lieutenant, what are you doing here?"

Hoshi raised the padd and shook it in front of him without looking up.

Malcolm understood that a rephrasing was required. "Why are you reading that _here_?"

"Speaking in terms of probability, this is the safest place of the ship. The place most likely to maintain atmosphere in case of attack or accident." Hoshi inhaled the air. "I like it here."

Malcolm could almost sympathize with her, with her need for a safe place to go back to every time she felt overwhelmed. But when that place was just in front of him it made him clumsy. Distracted. And, thus, vulnerable. The Reed men didn't like to feel vulnerable.

"You should find another place," he said, pointing at the exit.

She looked at him. "But this is the safest."

"Then go to the _second_ safest."

"Why?"

"You're getting in the way of our training."

Hoshi's expression was sceptical. "Exactly how?"

Malcolm dodged the issue. "May I ask for some respect, Lieutenant?"

"What?"

"My rank exceeds yours, after all. It would be commendable if you rose to talk to a superior officer."

"We're off du—" Hoshi met Malcolm's stare and backed off. She most likely understood that her attitude could get her into troubles. She stood up and proceeded to brush her rear clean several times even though she had been sitting on a towel. "Why are you so annoyed?" Her mouth contracted as if she had bitten her tongue. "If I may ask, sir?"

"You distracted me. A distraction in an _ushaan_ duel could be fatal."

"That's hardly my fault. I was just here, reading."

"Your presence is intrusive."

"How so?" Another weird movement of her mouth. "Sir?"

"This is the gym and having you here, doing _nothing_, distracts me."

Hoshi cocked her head in a clear sign of puzzlement. "So, I make you nervous?"

Malcolm wasn't going to admit that, especially to other people. And especially if one of those people was Hoshi.

"Your charming presence makes all of us nervous," Hayes said gallantly.

"Not me," Shran denied.

"Those of us who don't have de-icer as blood," Hayes said.

"Gentlemen, please," Malcolm intervened, then addressed Hoshi again. "The point is that the gym is for exercise. If you are just going to _read_, then stay in your cabin, go to your office in the lab or to the Mess Hall. Go anywhere, just avoid using these facilities as a library."

He could sense Hayes getting surprised at his harsh tone. He didn't care.

But if he thought he could daunt Hoshi he was mistaken. She said, "These facilities are free for every member of the army to use them. I'm doing nothing wrong. Where I choose to check everyday's calculations isn't important, the only important thing is that I do them _right_."

"One would think that with your preparation, you could check your daily work in a more suitable place."

"I can achieve the perfect state of mind here."

"You didn't need to do this a week before. What changed?"

"Nothing." Her curt reply came as fast as the glower on her face. "Look, if you have any problem, you can make an official complaint to the Captain." A heavy pause. "Sir."

"I'm sure we don't need to resort to those drastic methods," Malcolm said.

Hayes tugged at the hem of Malcolm's T-shirt and led him away for a private conversation. Shran followed them, the chain linked to his arm rattling against the floor.

"You should cut her some slack," Hayes said. "Commander Tucker's disappearance has affected her."

Malcolm already knew that. Trip was one of the few people who got on well with Hoshi, and the usually fussy lieutenant didn't cope well with change. He just wanted her to wake up from her perpetual state of stupor since Trip's abduction. Letting her fall back into her usual hideouts and isolation wasn't a good option.

"She's not the only one affected," Shran said.

Malcolm thought he heard a hint of criticism towards him in that comment. "What do you mean?"

"You've been restless since the Orion attack. Always in the move, always doing something, always keeping yourself busy."

"It's part of my job. I've been always busy."

"Not this much." Shran addressed Hayes. "You remember when he used the evenings to read in his cabin?"

"Those were the days."

"I still do it."

"You use the evenings to train. And the worst part is that you drag us with you," Shran replied.

"That's what we have always done. Training on Tuesdays is a tradition."

"It's Thursday," Shran pointed out.

Malcolm blinked. He would have sworn… He looked at Hayes, who returned a sympathetic stare.

"The absence of Commander Tucker has affected all of us," the Captain said diplomatically.

"He is a good Human. Very nice," Shran said. "And I understand if you are worried for him, for he isn't a real warrior, after all."

"He's warrior enough," Malcolm said in a categorical tone, making Shran flinch. "I'm not worried about him."

"Orions are a despicable species," Shran said.

"Yeah, make it better," Hayes murmured.

"I'm not worried," Malcolm repeated. His words sounded empty even to himself. "Trip is a nice chap and he will behave. I'm sure he won't look for trouble while he's in the hands of his captors."

Malcolm watched from across the room as Hoshi grabbed her padd and pondered what to do next: sit down again or take the exit? He could see how her stare switched from one place to the other.

"And even if Trip gets into trouble, I think he can manage. You shouldn't underestimate him, Shran. Trip may not be a born warrior, but I taught him some moves. He's very capable of defending himself."


End file.
